


Umbrella Season

by UmbrellaGoblin



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Implied/Referenced Torture, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Multi, Origin Story, Pain, Painplay, Psychological Torture, Slow Burn, Vanilla, Vanilla Kink, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:28:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 114,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22636780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UmbrellaGoblin/pseuds/UmbrellaGoblin
Summary: In essence, this is a story depicting the relationship between one of Gotham City's most notorious crime bosses - the Penguin - and his children. Each offspring of his has a distinct character and style of doing business. Furthermore, since Oswald Cobblepot goes on vacation - his assets are ripe for the taking. A civil war among the entire family is interrupted by alliances, betrayal, Batman's antics, and downright nonsensical events that, nevertheless, will lead to a less-than-expected conclusion.
Relationships: Ethan Cobblepot/Barbara Gordon, Jonathan Crane/Jervis Tetch, Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 8
Kudos: 90





	1. Into the Sunset

**Author's Note:**

> Canon characters such as Oswald Cobblepot are based on their canons from B:TAS with some headcanons and details from Gotham sprinkled into it. Original characters are added mostly for their own and other characters' development, respectfully. This fanfiction's essentially about certain canon characters such as Oswald and Edward trying to maintain a normal life while the Penguin's offspring from all sorts of canons are brought together and fight against one another. Fun, blood, smexual content - everything's here, really! Read at your own discretion.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for Oswald Cobblepot to finally realize he can't overwork himself to death and focus on his relationship with a friend as old as Jim Gordon. Meanwhile, his legitimate son makes the first move in this War of Five Kings.

_@The Iceberg Lounge, Gotham City:_

Gotham. A city infamous for its horrible commute, horrible smells and horrible weather. Milky smog is quite common here. Especially in early spring, when the cold and moisture on the streets reach their peak. Droplets of rain and snow hit the fragile, crystalline windows of a loft. Pit. Pat. Pit. Pat. A short-stacked, portly man rests atop his office desk. Still fully dressed. Quite formally at that! His chest heaved so heavily one may think he's suffocating… Before an occasional snort made it out of his long, crooked nose: Oswald Cobblepot finally closed his eyes. One early hour it is. Half-asleep, half-writing, his bills are due. Business as usual! Or, was it, really? Hasn’t he lost the grip? Did the ever-so confident, flashy, menacing Penguin finally go down the Roman’s way? Hushes of doubt infiltrated his head, murmuring threats down his very ears. His body's tiresomeness made it heavier in actuality. His only grip on power was through the many pillars he’s built himself on. One of these was Penny Solust. Simply Lark, among superiors & colleagues:

The raven-haired lady makes a silent entrance. A gasp formed on her thin, pale lips, but she contained herself; Penny thought the bird kicked the bucket! But another snort proved otherwise. Lips pursed, Lark shook Oswald up: “Mr. Cobblepot! Mr. Cobblepot!” Her voice is always so… Silvery. It rang like a good-quality spoon. Oz woke up almost immediately, with a gut-wrenching quack after:  
“ _Waaagh-_ Yes, yes, I’m awake…”  
“Mr. Cobblepot!”  
“Yes?!”  
“We need to talk.”

Lark’s voice suddenly soothed up, as she sat in an armchair opposite to her boss. She spoke with a concerned tone. Her face told of that, too. Oz figured she was on _that_ train of thought again… Drat. The old bird straightened himself up, only to display more of his dilapidated state: Oswald hasn’t shaved for at least three days - a stubble took this much to grow. That silky black bow Cobblepot wore? Undone. The shirt's top button alongside it. The collar itself was drenched in whiskey. Heavily. Oh God - one can’t possibly imagine what it’s like being the Penguin’s ‘nurse’... But somehow, Penny loved her job. She loved Oswald! And she just… Smiled in this very particular way, though it made her employer even more sour-looking. He slouched back down, face stuffed into a gloved palm. It was no fitting position to rest in, but Oz often indulged in such awkward poses:

“...I’m all ears,” he added hopelessly.

Lark took a deep breath and held her palms folded close to her face. Then, she pointed them at Oswald: “...You need a break.”

“No!” Was the answer, and the old bird turned away. Astonished, Penny went silent with her mouth open.

“You look exhausted, Mr. Cobblepot, so I came up with something that could hel-“

“Leave it aside,” Oswald halted her, dismissively waving his hands, “It’s not a priority - I need to sort these papers out before noon!”

“You’ve had these papers for the past four days, and I only see more coming,” the girl just kept insisting with the old grunt’s hand in hers, “Just look at yourself, Mr. Cobblepot - perhaps going elsewhere might-“

“Shh! Shush” Oswald’s breathing got labored - he forcefully got out of his seat. As far away from his caretaker as possible. The fowlman barely stood on his own two legs - that’s how hungover he was. “Penny. It’s an order, stop these idiotic attempts to, to… I have _people_ waiting for me out THERE!” A finger pointed at the entrance, “And they are expecting my appearance, a word of advice, a bill, a paycheck - whatever! And if the Penguin won’t be in his Iceberg, then what IS the point?! What is the point of me crafting all of this?! For it all to fall in my absence? Because it happened not once, not twice, not THRICE, but-“  
  


“ **Oswald!!!** ”   
  


Silence. Finally, Cobblepot listened. A strong voice of a stronger woman suddenly touched his heart. He waddled back to his throne after an uncanny tirade. Lark was stern in her methods, but Oswald… She couldn’t get enough of this strange man. Perhaps he wasn’t all too handsome, or muscular, or even as sharp-witted as he was before. But something about Oswald Cobblepot made itself dear to Penny Solust. A commoner like her rarely got the chance to meet such men as him, and she was right beside him. Schooling him. Damn! A weak ‘sorry’ suddenly came from Oz, his round cheeks switched from porcelain to beet-red. He _knew_ he was ill, and yet he refused to acknowledge it for his business's sake. Penny's other palm rested on said flared cheek. She looked him in the eye for a good minute and rubbed her very essence into him. Penguin could feel the hands of Mother - they were always so caring. So cozy, warm against his oily skin. He felt guilty. So he did listen, and listen very carefully from now on:

“What you did for me and my family,” she continued, “is not, and will never be forgotten. A mean Boer lady with a passion for guns working for the King of Gotham? _Hunh,_ one could only dream of such a job! So after all these years you helped me cope with… Stress - let me help you, sir. For once.”  
Oz couldn’t help but resentfully sigh. Penny was literally begging him to rest. Not his first flight, but it’s always unpleasant; watching your loved ones melt before you in fear for your very being. Perhaps it’s one of the horrors Cobblepot is truly craven about: Losing all he holds dear. Again, and again…

And again.

There was no escape from the many terrifying memories scratching about at his head. He’s been beaten so many times over the years one may say his score’s barely at break-even. Fighting a man dressed like a Bat is great, but maybe, deep down - Lark was right. Oswald couldn’t get along with the fact he’s gone soft and old. He never did! The pain-filled grimace of his made its way out, and Penny… She just held his hand. She let the silence rest. The answers brew. At last, the infamous Penguin saw the harsh truth:  
“Unlike many, Penelope - you know what I’ve been through. First with the Commissioner, then the Bat, then Designer, all his little schemes and many, **many** more. I admit it being quite craven in case of all three, but…”  
“But, sir?” Penny got impatient and quickly shut herself down. She sat right beside the old bird, encroaching upon and coiling ‘round him like a python. And what of Oswald? His gaze froze - something went wrong here and now.  
“...But-”  
“Mr. Cobblepot’s concerns are of a different matter.”

That voice. It could be none other than… Penelope turned her entire body towards the deep, raspy tone; yes. It was him: Shiny lacquered oxfords, a three-piece suit glistening with emeralds and silky tweed, a black bowler hat, a cane of pure gold akin to Penguin’s umbrella and finally - remarkably-dashing shades. Edward Nygma was here, and he looked much more elegant since their last meeting. A lot changed since then, but Oz… He didn’t expect such a visit. Ed didn’t come out of his shack for MONTHS, for crying out loud! Though, this appearance was not sudden at all as the two birdies have discovered; Nygma had a gazette in his other arm and flung it onto Cobblepot’s table.  
“Em-mperor Penguin… To be out of Black Gate this very MORNING?!” Oswald’s face twisted into a grimace of unbridled anger. Ed looked upset, too. Tall, regal, collected as he was. Penguin’s labored breathing made him grit his teeth:

“...Eesh. I thought you’d heard the news, Oswald. _I mean you usually do,_ but um, happy to oblige…?”

“Indeed I have not!” Oz nodded, “And I am MOST concerned about it! _WAUGH!!!_ ”

The newspaper went flying to the office's corners. The fine-feathered fowl bent over his desk and grasped at its edges in a desperate attempt to contain his rage. Oswald’s eyes were defocused - they ran across the entire chamber His hand shakily pointed to Penny: “L-Lark, if you’d be so kind,"

“Already on it, sir!” The young lady stated. Ding, ding, ding, ding… A spoon hitting a teacup's inner walls. Pacifying the fowlman to a steady pace. Oz had to breathe, just breathe… “Oh and,” he added, “can you give Mr. Nygma and I some time in p-private?” But Ms. Solust was already long gone. She shut the door, quietly. Smart girl. Then, he took that cup just as shakily and dunked all contents down his gullet. Edward’s brow rose: “My oh my, the greatest and most stable Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot is taking sedatives for his poor saggy self, huh?”

“Don't-” Ozzy rose a finger, “You get feisty with me now. Just tell me how the HELL Ignatius Ogilvy, the man I put behind bars myself, is getting out of here after less than three years of time?!"

“Well, _that’s_ an interesting story, Oswald~” The Riddler’s grin was never a good sign. Ever. Penguin prepared for the worst:

“First of all, Ogilvy was cured from his, ah… Sickness, by a disgusting bastard known as Professor Hugo Strange. Then, after his treatment was finished, he's also transferred back to Blackgate. Not under your ‘care’, so to speak, and after he settled in, it just… Blackgate is his. The _entire island._ He did it in a month. While you were drinking and fucking your life aw-”

  
“I am under _house arrest,_ ” Oswald said in a similar tone, “Trapped in my own home. Disgusted by my old friend’s prissy nature. AbsoLUTELY mortified! My enemies are now in higher positions of power than, than what used to be acceptable!”  
Nygma already made himself comfortable on the edge of the Penguin’s desk. He sat and pondered, then pondered more; the Riddler prided himself on being able to solve any riddle in existence, and yet there was one puzzle that caused more difficulties than any other: Human minds. So eclectic, unpredictable. His narrowed gaze suggested evident interest, and yet mild disappointment at the same time. Oswald was a nervous wreck, again, and he was going to be the brain - again. The Riddler, now in good form, pretentiously snorted and sighed. Loud. “But did it ever stop you from getting what you want, Oswald? Whatever he wants - he gets. That’s how your men always say, don’t they?”  
“Yeah. So what?”  
“Admit it: You are a mess. I don’t like seeing you like this, as much as you hated seeing _me_ in a similar pickle. Look, all I’m trying to get to your big-bird head is, ma-aybe Lark has a point? Yes-no?”

  
  
And Lark did have a point. Perhaps Cobblepot was too blind with rage to see through the veil of her care; she cared for him almost like Mommy did, after all. Oswald wanted to get angry, drunk, blame everything on the Bat, Jim... Anyone but himself for his recent misfortunes… But he is all he had to blame. Perhaps he got lost in his pretty lies and soft silks. Perhaps he’d forgotten what Gotham really felt like: The warmth of her drain pipes, the smell of theirs, too. The Narrows, Burnley. The Diamond District. The thought of growing older is scary for most, for Ozzy especially, but… He needed to live with it. And he chose to live, at long last: “Ed… I get it. But what of business? What of Ogilvy?”

“ _Fah,_ forget about Ogilvy! Forget about everyone, Oz! What’s black and white and red all over?”  
“A penguin.”  
“...Fine - I usually live in warmth, many crave me, little get me, and everyone’s miserable when they do get me. What am I?”  
“A vacation?”  
“Riiight…” Edward was frustrated. Really? Oh, THAT made Oswald smile; finally, he broke through a stick up the Riddler’s ass! His sizable posterior finally lifted itself up, and the once graceful legs shoved themselves along to the lankier fellow. Oz tried to be suggestive, now. Mild scent of a half-finished tuna sandwich and cheap brandy made it a damned disaster. Still, Ed idly turned his head towards him and groomed his ginger locks away.

  
“Say, if I were to _have_ such a vacation,” Cobblepot hissed, “Would you come with me or not, huh?”  
“...Eh. I do most of my challenges and puzzles for pure fun, but Gotham’s gotten, ah… Stale with me~” A smirk emerged on the pragmatic pickle-man’s freckled face. The arms of his moved to grasp the old bird ‘round his midsection. The two’s gazes met. The smell - abhorrent! The experience? Delightful.  
“It’s settled, then. We shall go wherever, Edward Nygma. As brothers.”  
“Not as brothers, Oswald Cobblepot! We go there as lovers.” Ed closed up to the bird. HIS bird. Further than one can imagine. Those thin arms reached around Oswald’s gut, and the genius in emerald, once again, mixed in with the bird-man of pure amethysts.

  
“For all these years, Eddie… Have we ever really changed?”  
“I could say so - time flies, really. I’m awful with this romantic rubbish, Oz, so-”  
“I know, Ed. Now shuddit…”  
The hands! They touch, they overlap! Pragmatic and romantic alike mix in the splendor of ice and green! Oh, Oswald’s heart melted, no - it sparked with surprise and joy. His cheeks beet-red again, the face of shock made its way past the masque of calm. It is a kiss, almost, yet not quite. Intimate, but not too much. Exactly how he's used to feeling around Edward Nygma.

“As lovers, Edward?”  
“As lovers, Oswald.”  
  
***  
  
 _@GCPD Main Precinct, Gotham City:_

Detective Harvey Bullock was staring right into the Precinct's clock. It ticked, and ticked, and then it ticked more. His eyes, hazed with forty-eight hours of wakefulness, fixed on its arms. Time stopped for Harvey. That clock didn’t dare move, even when he looked away. Not like he could, anyway. Bullock’s a seasoned cop, but his body just seemed to freeze in one place. Was there any reason for it? Perhaps; pills of Adderall, crushed into powder, laid beneath his desk, and a half-empty glass of muddy water reflected light from his phone. Bzzt-Bzzt! Bzzt-Bzzt! It stopped after a while. Harvey kept to himself amid a crowd of close friends, stuck in a limbo of dreams and regrets…

Jim. He saw Jim. Right there, in the office. It was hard to accept it - his life-long crime-fighting partner died and returned like some kind of magician. It vexed Harvey! There was a time when respect for the dead was a common courtesy. And it’s not like he wasn’t happy seeing his friend alive. Jim Gordon’s presence meant both hope and no rest for his weathered self. And, indeed, Harv’s developed quite a problem, as James could clearly see in those dilated pupils. The Commissioner stood right next to the Detective, and yet no emotion could be spotted in this rusty Irishman. There was a woman right next to Jim - Renee Montoya. Quite a decorated cop, she’s the most worried about Harvey’s state.

  
“...Harv? Bullock, are you even listening?” Montoya’s voice hissed through the eardrums, thus making Bullock flinch in response. Then, he adjusted his tie and scratched his stubble, as if nothing strange happened: “Yeah- I mean, yes ma’am, M’ fully here, pinky-swear…”  
“Well if you are, Harvey…” Commissioner Gordon’s hand put a folder onto Harv’s desk: “...What’s your opinion on this?”  
  


Inside was a fresh newspaper, released this very morning. Harvey’d seen it a couple of times already. Eyes always rolled at the title, cringeworthy as it was: “Emperor Penguin to be released from Blackgate this very morning,” he read aloud. Bullock sighed - there was nothing in it for him, but the Commissioner’s going to send Detective Harvey Bullock to sort this mess out. Again.  
  


“I mean, do I have to have one?”  
Jim furrowed his brows: “You know what this means, Harv.”  
“A gang war? Please,” Detective said, “Ogilvy’s too much of a mook to even start shit like his daddy does. And Penguin Proper’s been sleeping on all that since the Designer thing happened. Couple months ago, right?” Then, Bullock folded his arms and looked away in defiance.  
“Thankfully, he DOES operate on a lesser scale than Penguin does,” Montoya added.  
“That doesn’t make him less of a criminal, though,” Jim’s arms crossed, too. His nose wrinkled up along with his mustache. “This smells extra-fishy. Bat and I are already working on it.”

  
“So, no work for Detective Bullock this time, huh?” A hopeful grin popped up on Harvey’s sleazy mug. James was happy to return the gesture.  
“Mhm. Detective Bullock can solve his loitering and shoplifting cases again.”  
“As if it’s never like this, _hnh~_ ”  
“Hey! At least my cases are consistent and absolutely not-ridiculous. I don’t envy you, though… Also, I don’t have a problem with Ogilvy being in charge - he’s a bastard, but at least you can reason with ‘im when dealing with the Mob. Right?”  
“Speaking of Ogilvy - he’s the least of our problems right now.” James Gordon set elsewhere. Renee Montoya, too. Harvey turned around. The picture, well, it was something else:  
  


A disfigured, yet sharply-dressed man stood at the entrance. Gordon received a staredown just as harsh. This lad seemed almost timeless due to all that scar tissue on his face. Thankfully, all general facial features were there. The nose was particularly sharp, though. The lips had a couple of thick, pale scars going down the lively skin. Long hair, ash-blonde, covered most of the head’s premises. The most notable feature is a monocle on his left eye, which shone bright-green right into the eyes of others. It matched the dark-purple dinner jacket and the emerald turtleneck. Although unrecognizable at first, the unharmed eye spoke more than any tongue could; the kid was _bad_ blood. Penguin’s blood.  
  


Bullock turned his head towards the Commissioner, then threw a suspicious glance at the dandy: “Folks? Who IS this shady guy?”  
“Our new cyber-security manager,” James said in a mulled-down tone, “Ethan Cobblepot.”  
To say Bullock was disappointed would be an understatement: “Really, Jimbo? _Another_ Cobblepot? And YOU are the one worried about a damn gang war here!”  
“Trust me - I don’t like seeing him here, either. Smells fishier than your beer-herring, too.”  
“So whuss the problem, man? Jus’ kick ‘em out, no?” The seasoned detective’s eyes flicked from Montoya to Gordon, but the former vanished by now. Only two of them left. Jim was silent. His eyes rolled. God, Harv really, _really_ didn’t want to bring him down:

  
“I can’t, Harv. Mayor James’s order is to keep him around and let the kid handle the big tech.”  
“ _Why_ bring the Penguin’s chick back to Gotham, huh? What good can a _Cobblepot_ possibly do?!”  
“Unfortunately for us - quite a lot:” Jim had to take a deep breath - oh boy, there were a lot of things in this guy’s resume: “First of all, he’s cleaned himself up after all the incidents at Burnside. Obviously. Then, settled in Seattle and worked for Queen’s company. Yeah, _that_ Queen. Quite the resume, good profile overall, then Waller got interested, yada-yada-yada-”  
“No, Jimbo. What good can he do for _us?_ ”  
“Well, he’s keeping our data safe, at least. I’ve heard there were more than a dozen cyber-attacks on cities across the coast - Gotham repelled all of ‘em, probably thanks to the Penguin’s kid. Basically, he’s a loafer-licker father-favorite, that’s-”

“-About right, actually,” A more juvenile voice joined the conversation, right behind Bullock’s back, “He can also actually, totally see, hear and feel what you two are talking about. Gentlemen~” That _‘gentlemen’_ was so outstretched and smarmy it made Harvey squirm in his seat. Thankfully, Jim kept his face straight and grabbed Ethan’s wrist. For a handshake, of course! But, Cobblepot was shoved a little closer to him until his mustache practically tickled the rim of his ear.  
“ _I don’t shake hands that used to punch my daughter~_ ”

  
Miffed by the encounter, Ethan flung himself backward and tripped over the Detective’s desk. A snicker came from the latter. There was a moment of awkward, tense silence between the three until Cobblepot himself laughed it off: “Oh damn! Still getting used to the environment, m’dudes… Welp, it’s good we don’t _have to_ work on all cases together. Moreso, I don’t even have to stay here for work! I wouldn’t wanna bother you with my, ah… Presence, Commissioner, Sir.”  
“Whadya _mean_ you don’t have to be here, kid?” Bullock quacked from under the desk. To that, Ethan leaned forward, too close for comfort, and stared him right down:

“Oh _please,_ Detective Bullock - you must know the drill! It’s a casual lend-lease offer between GCPD and me; I offer your men new equipment, training and armaments. In return, my task force and I get control of Gotham University, its research facilities, as well as ten blocks around it. At least.”  
“Wai-wai-wait,” Harvey shook his arms around. Great. He’s drunk at work. “Wait. Hold on for just a sec here, kid; you’re gonna tell me, Mayor James, who’s your daddy’s _bitch,_ allowed you to just waltz into GU an’ take matters into ya hands?! I call bull-”  
“ _Harvey,_ ” James stopped him. At the right time, it seems. “Continue, Mr. Cobblepot. Why Gotham, of all places?”

“Thank you, Commissioner,” the smile on that scarred and fried mug was tense, though Ethan looked a tad calmer: “Why Gothammmm-ah? Well, lemme think of it… Oh right! I come from here. And maybe, just maybe, I want to help my home. _For real_ this time. The Cobblepot name could use a rebranding, after all~”

“An interesting reason,” Gordon added, “Interesting, but highly-doubtful.”

“Look, all I’m asking for is a chance to prove myself. I’m no longer under Penguin’s control, and that I’ve reformed, like, legit. Blacksun was always a symbol of hope, but I didn’t have it right back then… I wanna make it right this time, and shove it into Dad's _face!_ ”

“Oh _stuff it,_ kid,” Harv’s brows could furrow, but instead - his face mocked that of Cobblepot’s, ever-so prideful and bitter. “You can babble on aboutcher ‘achievements’, but all I see now is a fraud. So quit bossin’ the grown-ups around, putz!”

Ethan’s eyes moved away from Bullock and Gordon. Thin lips of the Cobblepot heir got even thinner: “Detective Bullock - I shall remind you that, although I may be green, I still have plenty more _brains_ than _brawn. And,_ one doesn’t have to see the results to feel their effect. You should be grateful I haven’t told Mr. Gordon about your… Oh, you know~”

An awkward set of whispers emerged in the entire precinct. The only authority in that place is Gordon, whose stare shut Ethan down more than his Father's ever could. Blackbird ulped, then turned one-eighty with a content grin and strolled away.  
“Pleasure meeting and-or doing business with you, gentlemen. You can call me anytime in case you’ll need help with… No, your underlings already do. Welp- Glad to help you guys!”

And with that, Blacksun left the precinct’s premises. Loud taps of his steel-tip shoes remained for a while. James Gordon and Harvey Bullock both narrowed their eyes at the cheeky bastard’s back; there was a distinct print of crows with emerald eyes. Jim had to figure both Ogilvy and Cobblepot out. That stone-cold face tells Harv; he knows what he's doing. For now, he’ll tolerate the kid. And Harvey had to do it with him. But “GOD, he’s such a cunt!” suddenly flew out of Bullock’s mouth. James understands, always. He looks down to his bud, stuck with paperwork, and tiredly gives him a hearty pat:  
  


“He is, Harvey. But if he told us the truth, he might be one useful cunt, too.”  
  
***  
  
 _@Archie Goodwin Intl. Airport, Kane County:_

“I _already_ don’t like this,” Oswald’s whines could be heard through the jet’s nethers, “I don’t like this one bit!” He kept stomping his feet against the carpet like a tantrum-ridden child, arms crossed on his luxury-ridden chest. There was a definitive whiff of worry around the old bird. His breaths were labored with a burden of artificial oxygen.

This. This entire trip, ohh... He's leaving his lady behind. It felt so wrong, on _so_ many levels. After what both Edward and he have been through, the thought of _**his**_ city falling to someone else didn't just vex him; it felt legitimate. Scary. Nagging. Cobblepot always saw himself as Gotham's protector. The public didn’t appreciate him as much as he wanted them to. But he was always there: Stable, reliable, consistently coming forth, only to be beaten into the mud, then rise again, like a lard-ridden foil of a phoenix. One thing the Penguin did not want is quit Lady Gotham’s games, much like the Roman once did. But indeed, Gotham used to be a very different place under Carmine's feet.

Pleasant and not, memories of it are merely whispers now. A seasoned man’s head can hold so many thoughts before it breaks. Ozzy here was clearly failing to understand this simple truth; Being the Roman in this situation was dull. Being a quitter for his family? That’s even worse. Right now, Oz counted something up with his fingers. Ed couldn’t hear what, but Oswald’s wrist got snatched and put to rest.  
Nygma met a furious gaze, but his smirk quickly softened it up:

“Counting days? Already? I’ve heard old people consider it poor manners.”  
“Relatives…” Cobblepot hissed, only to be hushed down by Edward’s finger.  
“...Are you still on that Ogilvy thing?”  
“YES, Edward! How can I NOT think of him when he’s already released?!”

“The sun is set, yeah. But!” The Riddler’s finger at his partner’s lips struck upwards, “We’re getting outta here for just... A mother has twelve children and the third one is sickly, who is it?”  
“Ed…” Oswald said breathily, “...I do not have time for-”  
“We have ALL the time, Oswald! The answer is March, by the way. We’re going to the Cape for exactly one month, and what could Iggy do in such a breeze of time? The answer is nada - we can’t be beaten by your kids even in the wildest multiversal _dreams._ Lark’s going to manage the Iceberg and the Flock while you’re outing, right?”

The Penguin’s head sunk into a pillow prepared by his beloved worker - Penelope. That cold stare warmed up further at the sight of Gotham’s skyline. Windows shone red like rubies on Mommy’s necklace. Somewhere there, he could see lots of blue. Somewhere close to the bay: The Crown Jewel of Gotham shone brighter than Wayne Tower ever could. Brighter than the dreaded Bat’s spotlight up in the cloudy sky. The Iceberg's a pleasant picture. Pleasant, yet unnerving. Oswald went from throwing a tantrum to complete silence in a matter of seconds. This was unusual for Nygma. He’s used to reading people in patterns, but despite being a nervous wreck, Oz is much less predictable. Maybe that’s why he’s still interested in this fat, well-dressed goblin of a man.

“Let me guess,” Ed leaned into Oz, “You’re not scared for any of your funds or businesses, but for your sons, because any of them could start a war with one another and this would mean an end to your entire legacy. Riiight?”  
The old crone’s head slowly turned towards… A friend? A lover? A Mystery. “Edward Nygma - the man of a thousand puzzle pieces.”  
“Oswald Cobblepot - the man of a thousand concerns!” Their grins were mutual now. Ozzy’s nose nearly touched Edward’s, “Or complaints. I don’t really bother!”  
“A thousand concerns there are, and yet you always solve them like it’s nothing… I’ll ask you again: I know I’m a man of heart, but… Are you sure Iggy won’t try anything stupid? I feel like he hasn’t learned his lesson. And if he hasn’t, well... You know I love my sons unlike _anyone else_ will. But if I have to, I _will_ put a bullet in his head. Once and for all.”

Now it was Edward who caught flashbacks; Ethan. Martin. Two precious boys he’d nursed and raised. One’s a legitimate heir, the other - more of an adopted steward. The Riddler wasn’t supposed to get attached, ever. Martin and Ethan, though, were definitions of an exception. Somehow, Ed was happy. His arm wrapped around Oswald’s shoulders and moved him closer. The fowlman silently protested, but then settled right beside his Mystery.  
“I know you will,” Nygma added, “But it must be hard - to get rid of your blood. Bastards or not, Oswald, they’re yours.”  
“I know that, Edward. That is exactly why I don’t want them in Gotham. I love this city, but… It’s full of corruption, reeks of it! Its shit smells from miles away, and… It sounds awful and sappy, Eddie, but - I wouldn’t want for them to earn my title or money.”  
“Greed?”

“No,” Oz shook his head, “The opposite: I want them to be independent. I want them to be the best in what they do. Some are better, some… Not so much, but Lady Gotham will turn them to dust or to crime! It made Ignatius into what he is. I’m scared what will happen if-if-if Joshua, or, or Martin, or Ethan comes back. It’s going to be an utter _mess!_ ”  
“I believe you. Say no more. Let’s look at it through a prism of cold, hard logic: Ignatius is too weak - even if he has the entire Blackgate Isle beneath his heel, Ethan forgot about both of us, moved coasts and works for the god-damn Green Arrow, Martin’s well-off overseas and Joshua… Oh crud, sorry - still MIA. No rumors, no testimonies, nothing.”

Joshua Cobblepot knew what he signed up for when he joined the RAF. Flashes of his Bar-Mitzvah still lingered in Oswald's mind. It was a horrible mess, but hey - at least it was pretty damn memorable! Oswald’s chuckle was uncouth for such horrible words, but… Josh. He missed him. Edward, in the meantime, put his partner onto his lap and let his gloved fingers loose, caressing and combing through his bird's hair. A moment of blissful silence betwixt them - a rare occasion. The engines of their carrier condor have already hummed for long.

“Mr. Cobblepot! Mr. Cobblepot!” A familiar voice it was.  
“Am listening, Penny, dear!”  
“Cap says he’s ready for takeoff,” she said, “Should I come on board for one last chef’s kiss?”  
“Leave it to the groveling oafs at my throne’s feet, hah! And, ehh, Lark…”  
“Yessir?”  
“...Don’t let said oafs forget who’s the _real_ King of Gotham, all-right?”  
“The Ogilvy question will be sorted as given, Mr. Cobblepot. I wish you a safe journey, and if it isn’t - you know what to do. _Zay Gezunt!_ ”

Suddenly - the engines roared, and the steel bird finally started moving. Oz tried to lean forward, to take one last glance at his beloved home. Ed gently forced him down to his lap again, though. Oswald’s eyes began to close, much to Nygma's delight. The old bird’s sore feet settled, and his mind fell into this strange state of half-slumber. He dreamt of family. Of Mommy. Of Father. Of his Flock, even! Ignatius, Joshua, Ethan and Martin, coddled up together, ruling alongside their King as the Council. Fears vanished. An actual, fully-genuine smile appeared on the face of Oswald Cobblepot. All he did now is mutter,

“ _Zay gezunt, Frau Gotham, zay gezunt._ ”


	2. A Cape of Diamonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald has a bad dream and argues with Edward about... Things. They arrive to their vacation spot - Capetown - dress up like total dads and meet a vague figure who introduces herself as Lark's cousin. Wherever it shall lead them...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! Ozzy's nightmare's pretty gruesome. Read at your own discretion.

_@Cape Town Intl. Airport, SAR:_

Slumber was a delight Oswald stopped being used to. As if a mountain of diamonds put off his shoulders, the actual mountain of papers was left for his clerks to sort out. Lark took over the Iceberg. No Bats or Robins to bother him any longer. No family, either! Just Edward, his precious man in a green suit… At first, Ozzy slept like a babe. Cradled by the surprisingly-warm and comfortable E.Nygma. Cobblepot couldn’t figure out whether it was the change of pressure or the actual state that drove him all across the board, but then - he could no longer hear the jet’s engines. And it went dark. Really dark. In fact, it almost felt like he died. A spark came along, and it lit a candle right next to his throne.

This return made Cobblepot quite content - until he realized his wrists and ankles were welded to his chair. He’s _melted into_ the smooth leather. It encapsulated him. It held him firm, warm, and snug. Any struggles were discouraged. Goose feathers and spongy interior wedged into his mouth, the old bird could not squawk loud, either. All he could see is his finest establishment trashed. Gotham’s rain poured from the broken glass ceiling, right onto the exquisitely-dressed dining table. Salty droplets of chemicals-ridden fluid coating whole gutted tunas and platters of french fries, spoiling his favorite dishes with their unsanitary presence.

Many faces sat at the table. HIS table. All of them were traitors. Ones who Ogilvy took to Blackgate; Sykes, Five Spoons, Lockjaw, Stonesbane - these goons had such ugly names the Penguin wrinkled his stuffed nose at their mere aura. Ignatius was here, too. Sitting on his Father's throne. Despite being so close, Oz couldn’t hear what they were talking about. No matter how loudly he tried to scream through the soft, silky vat, it shut him up to the faintest of groans. He was an object, used for his son’s comfort. And then there was another son: Hidden by a purple cloak, whose bright-green monocle blinded Iggy’s forces. Ethan killed them all. Ignatius begged. Loud. And Oswald did, too. And then there was Martin, who tossed the wingless Ethan off the Iceberg’s roof. The third descendant on the throne, he’s had the meal straight out of his brothers’ bloodied chalices. Then there came Joshua, with pikes and guns. He drove straight through the Songbird's chest. Oswald didn’t want to look; his nephew, dressed in savage military garbs, trimming the kettle off Martin's body. But then…

Then Joshua’s eyes met Oswald’s. He saw the old bird for what he was. The smile of his pale, chapped lips only widened at the gasp of terror; Josh is a dead man, especially in this feverish scene. With other heirs slaughtered, those eyes of dirty ice were fixed on his old man’s. “How does it feel, Uncle? How does it feel, to lose your sense of time? To be abandoned? Like you abandoned me~” Rockhopper held a sledgehammer, already bloodied with groaning Ignatius’s blood. He could hear his Uncle begging, for forgiveness or otherwise. Then, the dreaded creature drove his hammer in, twisting and twirling it against the chair's legs and-

“WAAAAAUGH!!!”

Oswald Cobblepot knew how to wake up with flair. His tongue sloshed around among his gaping maw. A thumb quickly pressed down on it; Edward. Suddenly, Oz tipped over his side, plopping down onto the jet’s floor with a loud thud. A quack of sorts immediately followed, all while the old bird cleaned his tongue off from the leathery taste:  
“Ph-too! Foo, thoough, blegh!.. What was your THUMB doing in my mouth, Nygma?!”  
“Oh, it’s just-”

“No-no-no, you won’t get away with it _this_ time, boy!” The weathered grunt continued quacking with clenched teeth. Nine hours of sleep helped here - Oswald jumped back to his feet like a damned rabbit!  
“...You were at peace,” Edward began, “And - it wasn’t I who forced it into your gobbler, Oswald. You took my hand by force. I wouldn’t wake you up to have you all whiny and sour. Good morning, by the way.”  
“Morning then, if you say so…”  
“How can it _not_ be good, Oswald?” Ed thrusted the old bird into his soft, tender side, then took his arm. Nygma led him to the pocket closet Lark kept in store, “I mean, it might leave a bruise or two, but you’re already well-slept and here. In Capetown!”  
“Capetown?!”

Cobblepot came rushing to the illuminators; it DID look quite temperate outside. Plenty of bushes, a steppe surrounding the airfield, and the Table Mount visible in the distance. Its top shrouded by swift clouds, the plateau stood like a tree trunk among the ant colony of people. The disintegrating African sun shone brightly by its sides. At first, Oz was frustrated - he missed the entire flight! Ed didn’t lie, he was out of the picture for this long. Penny was not here, and it all got a little scary. Yet somehow, the feelings of fascination he’s locked deep within resurfacing at the sight of a foreign shore; the Penguins' land.

The Riddler tugged the bird, HIS bird, away from the window. “You’ll be boiled outside before you can say ‘Stellenbosch’!”  
“Stellen-what?”  
“A town not far from here. Famous for its big university and research facilities, as well as a big market of haworthias and other succulents?” Ed grinned at Oswald’s frowning. Despite sleeping for such a long while, Cobblepot still managed to look just as pale and wasted. And, judging by his quivering lips - he was NOT happy.  
“...Why are you telling me that?”  
“Iunno. Should I know? Maybe we should go out already? Should we?”

“Questions, questions, so many questions!” Cobblepot shook his arms around, then undid the top button of his shirt and looked at Eddie’s thumb; yep, it's still sloppy. Ew.  
Nygma rolled his eyes, but the two of them laughed at the occasion. At once. At this whole endeavor, too. Lark really made them go out of their comfort zones, and it felt… Interesting. “We should go out, yes. There’s a car waiting for us. Ms. Solust told me it’s a familiar face.”  
“Well then!” Oz said, “I’ve no reason to distrust Ms. Solust, and for all I care - we shouldn’t worry about a damn thing~” The fowlman wrapped his arm around E.Nygma, while letting him do the same to _his_ portly frame. A steward opened the cabin door, and…

It was so, fucking, **hot.** A wave of intolerable heat struck Oswald from head to toe. The bird of ice could already sense himself melting onto the plane’s dapper carpets. Droplets of sweat began forming on his forehead, then immediately dried up from the sheer amount of iridescent, deserted steam that entered their metal condor. Frankly, Oswald was mortified. And so was Edward! About a dozen cars presented themselves on empty concrete. It was a familiar face, indeed; dressed in all-black, bald, hairless. He carried an umbrella, akin to Ozzy’s, though a pair of scarred, rusty Berettas rested at his hips. There's no doubt in who this fellow was; Viktor Zsasz. Still alive, fleshy, and scarred to perfection.  
“We should come an’ change, right?”  
“Good idea, Mr. Nygma! And, please - shut the damned door, you want the death of me I swear to God Above…”

A couple of tryouts later, the two of them finally found suitable dressage. Oswald rarely traveled out of town for purposes other than business, so he never got to use the Condor’s full capabilities. He didn’t know about the bar, the quarters, an actual bed, a shower… Now, Edward _was_ permitted to use the Condor occasionally, but he probably slept through his flights, anyway. Oswald, although used to its luxury, constantly tripped over himself - that didn't look remotely comfortable. At one point, Oz nearly hit the table. Portly as he is, Cobblepot felt light as a feather. The look in his eyes… Edward Nygma has gone soft for them; tenderly-awkward moments like these. Another minute had passed before the two of them found the wardrobe. And, when the time has come, Oswald felt ridiculous. Though, Edward kept his hand close throughout their graceful descent:

  
Gotham’s smartest and richest closet-dwellers wore matching khaki cargo-shorts - quite fitting to the heat. Oswald’s black golf socks on garters looked rather uncanny with matching sneakers, but Ed went out in bare slippers! At least he looked more formal, right? A white Hawaiian shirt with penguin prints on it matched a green shirt with hand-drawn question marks. The Riddler retained his signature bowler hat, but the Penguin had cooler shades. Both in color and design. Oswald’s umbrella cast a vast shadow as they went down, still adjusting to the heat. With every passing breath, Cobblepot’s lungs felt heavier. Not only was it hot like Hell, but it was quite dry. Two guardsmen in bland dinner jackets followed The Riddler and the Penguin, then greeted the two identically-dressed guards beside Viktor. She resembled Penelope quite a lot, especially in her laid-back stance and eerily-polite demeanor. Ed had a weird face, whereas Oz tried his best not to get heatstroke on his vacation's first day.  
  
“Oswald,” he said, “Always a pleasure. Especially here.” Zsasz then moved up close to kiss Oswald’s sole projection of power - a ring of silver and onyx on his pinkie. Edward’s hand got a nice little smek, too. The two of them were… Surprised, but smiled wide and proud. Oz wanted to make a loquacious greeting, but-  
“Dude. What the _hell_ are you doing here?" Ed. Always Ed. Dammit! Oz nearly fainted from worrisomeness. Can he stop acting like an idiot, for once?  
"Good question, Ed! I'm working. Always." Thankfully, Viktor didn't mind. Thankfully!

"Yes, but. How did you end up in here?"  
Mercenaries are no joke, but Viktor was one of the more relaxed types. Still, his hairless brow rose: "For... The same reason YOU are here, guys? I live in Johannesburg, though. Long drive, but it's good to see you two."  
"Yeah!"  
"Yeah..." Oz rubbed the back of his head.   
"I see you're a bit... Tired, still. Wanna hop in and get to our place? So that we could settle down, and stuff?"

Now that, sounded much better. Viktor was no fool - he could read people as well as the Penguin did. Violent thoughts plagued his head quite often, but meds helped. They really, really did. Otherwise, they'd be laying in a ditch by now. Oswald was the first to settle in. Edward followed him soon after. Always curious, the Riddler nudged Zsasz. Though, the latter's already busy watching over the caravan of armored cars the Rogues were escorted with:

“...Zsasz. This _Gwendolyn_ Penny was talking about. She must be-”  
“Her cousin,” Nygma fell silent, swigging from a can of sprite. “And an envoy from the Numbers Gang. You need anything here? You talk to Gwen.”  
Oz held back a hum, then silently nodded to her reassuring words: “So you and her weren’t in Rhodesia when the second war broke out, were you?”  
“We were not,” he added, “In fact - I went to Gotham after my service, and she went abroad to study.”  
“To study, huh? And why was Gwendolyn left behind?” Suspicion's clear in Oswald's voice, but Zsasz is always quick to calm him down. The happy vibes on a killer face are always one uncanny valley.

  
“Because, um... You see, I'm a bit... Close with her. Like, really close. I know a lot of things about Gwen, too. All I WILL say is, she's seven years older than Penny, and they never-”  
“Got any closer?” Cobblepot slid right in.  
“They did. But not in a way you might expect - Gwen and Pen got close again through _you_ after the war ended.”  
“How so?” Now Ozzy got curious. Perhaps a bit _too_ curious. Even Edward put a hand on his shoulder and gave him an odd look. Cobblepot gasped at first, then closed his mouth in a gest of submission.  
“I don’t think we should interrogate our lovely host like this,” Nygma added in unison with Oswald’s own nods. Despite their envoy's well-educated status, she didn't catch much attention, even though they saw her. But it's always the quiet smiling ones that should be watched the closest. Viktor had a really content face, for some odd reason. He didn't look tired, and his skin wasn't the color of Oswald's shirt. Maybe that's enough for happiness? Meh. Penguin nodded off as soon as the conversation ended. Until a very straightforward question came from their driver:

“...So you two are boyfriends, right?”

"GHLK-” The old bird choked on the second bottle of water. The Riddler, though, rose both brows, thus letting his glasses fall next to Oswald’s shades.  
“Did… Did Penelope?”  
“Yes, Oswald, so hit me with it.”  
“We are…” Ed spoke to try and save the situation, “...We have been close. For more than a decade. With ups, downs, in-betweens. Whatever you may think we are, we are not and yet we are.”  
Now it's Viktor's turn to spill his drink: “Husbands?”  
“Partners. In crime.”  
“Oo-ye, Penny did mention that” Zsasz added with a loud sip of Sprite - they were already bruderschaftin' with Ed and leaving poor Ozzy out of the picture.

Oswald rolled his eyes, his cheeks red despite the car's cool. Suddenly, he had some time to focus on the surroundings; although the sun was scorching, the cool breeze from the sea and cold air from the mounts made it much more tolerable. Low-income and low-maintenance housing surrounded a network of empty roads. Oz wasn’t used to such smooth driving distances. Gotham didn’t have them because of all the rain and snow. Furthermore - road-building was one of the more popular extortion channels back in HIS day and age. This is still the case nowadays, mind you. Although it was the opposite side of the world, Capetown felt… Homey, with both its shanties and equally-trashy skyscrapers of Downtown. Oz lost track of the two’s conversation - all he could think of is Lark, and how she’s faring out there. In the City.

He dreamily sighed, then leaned against the window, observing both rampant poverty and luxury complexes along the beachside. A bustling town switched off to prairies, cliffsides, and wilderness. A mansion, no - a whole damn _castle_ was seen in the distance. Before it, a tall brunette with a hefty tan and a beige dress. This was the Gwen they're talking about, right? She must be, since her regal posture and fiery eyes suggest a noble upbringing. Most importantly, though - a flock of _penguins_ rushed to the car and surrounded it with their plush bodies. Zsasz had to be careful now! A gasp and a squee of joy made Oswald sound like an excitable schoolboy, but he didn't care. So long as he had penguins throughout this vacation, he'll be the happiest bird of them all. There's business to sort out, as their silent envoy already had a flock of rough-looking folk flock around her, but for now? Oz took his time, and so did Edward. The vacation has started - the rest can wait. Even the treatment of his sore-ass throat.


	3. Northern Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, on the other pole of the world, Oswald's youngest son, Martin, the Ventriloquist, and his new puppet-master, Mr. Dunlow, team up. Since crime is rampant even in most civilized nations, they're determined to be the good guys and stop an upstart crime lord who goes by the Kennelmaster. And this situation leads to some SERIOUS BEANS being spilled while poor Arnie gets traumatized again.

_@Stavanger, Norway:_

It felt cold inside. Frosty bits of antiquated hardwood stung hard against a stranger’s feet. One grace that saved him is the cellophane put beneath. Metallic taste of blood hit his lips, hidden under both sackcloth and soft silk ribbons. A nosebleed, he thought. He couldn't see much, either; his entire face was wrapped in bandages. He was not cuffed, or bruised, or beaten - but bound. Tightly, but comfortably. Stranger's got plenty of enemies. Too many to name. It could be anyone, but for his killers to treat him so nicely? They’d have to think of him as someone _special_. This man groaned aloud as he struggled in silk. A comforting blanket was put over his shoulders, which fell from them just as quickly. He could hear the clock ticking, too. It was almost contradictory to the hushed-out barks and whimpers of his captors. Strange. It's the same voice, even! Or not? He couldn’t quite get it.

And all of a sudden, he’s blinded by the light. A swift stretch and a couple blinks were enough to get back into shape. The Stranger looked outside: Oil rigs still pump black gold up and into their hearty bellies, and the cold Norwegian rocks still have their little pimple-houses. This loft cost him a fortune, after all. As well as hundreds of plebeians, no doubt; Children. Bastards. _They_ cost high on the market. That could be turned into proper meat so easily! For servitude, combat... Count Vertigo always paid well. The Burned alongside the Ninth Circle? Splendidly. After their downfall, his clients sent their minions to erase the undesirables, but nothing scared the Kennelmaster now. On the contrary - the comedy in front of Gottfried Guthund made his lips curl into a predatory grin:

There’s a man, a boy, - a _muppet_ in front of him. Shaking. Dibbing sweat off his forehead. He - _it_ \- had little wrinkles on the face and arms. Mr. Guthund adored well-preserved flesh like this. So pure, and pale, and easy to dig in… Shame, most of it hid beneath this tacky, dirt-colored suit. The future lovedoll also had pretty booties, that clacked on weathered wood like horseshoes. A meager, effeminate neck was garnished with the collar of a tanned shirt, as well as a bright-red bowtie. Despite many a hair missing, this joke of a person still looked like Mommy dressed him, and - oh dear - it made Gottfried laugh out loud. The bloodied cloth in his mouth slipped out and landed right onto the blanket. It's still grasped by this... Creature’s hand, while its other palm was busy with something else… _Someone_ else. The muppet had a doll to go along with him. Quite reminiscent of a short, portly Scotsman, with an eyepatch and a sharp-looking hook for an arm. His rich ginger beard made the Good Hound’s stubble look all the more pathetic.

“Hyar,” Patchy the Putzwood spoke to his creator, “Tolg ya e’s alrite. Lookit gis dimwit, e’s bleedin’ gawking at ye, lad!”  
“I’m terribly sorry for doubting you, Mr. Dunlow,” the thing itself spoke with a shrill and frightful tone, “I-I should have listened. This is going so, awfully wrong! Oh!” The Ventriloquist glanced at the struggling manhound, “And I’m terribly s-sorry for keeping you waiting, Mr. Guthund. I-It’s not in my superior’s n-nature to be late like this. There must be some-”  
“Shut up!” the Good Hound barked, “I want to hear your puppet speak, _housebitch._ ”

The Ventriloquist whimpered while stumbling backward. A pair of eyes other than Gottfried’s observed him from behind. The Lousy Scotsman, though, held his stance firm and tidy. His eye of glass and crystal squinted at the bound, growling beast.  
“Welp, I almost fell asleep 'ere, Muppet! I'g thank ya, Dog, if ya weren’t such a cunt, ye.”  
“I’d take it!” Gottfried and Dunlow moved up close to one another, _real_ close: “...If your girlfriend here didn’t spoil my sights.” Hound flicked his tongue in response to Arnie's shivers.  
“The Muppet, aye? Oh that 'e is! But, Dog, y’gotta learn one lesson hyar…” Swish! The hook slipped itself across Guthund’s cheek. Fresh blood swooped out of it, much to Dunlow's chagrin: “You do not, call, my Muppet, your girlfriend. Got it?”  
“Ja, **Ja!** Gimme a cloth or something!”

The two masterminds giggled, staring one another down with both respect and hate. Arnold Wesker’s gaze was put off elsewhere. Giggles grew into cackles, growls of excitement. The Dummy and the Dog pressed two bulky heads together, their grins maddening, frightening. Glistening with spit. Gottfried Guthund matched behaviors with his appearance: His jaw, bony and hollow, gave the man with a slight underbite. Arnie’s eyes hid under his glasses. The russet color of the Good Hound’s irises reflected right from them. His nose snubbed akin to a rottweiler’s, deeply-scarred with puppy-bites. Light-ginger brows akin to a doberman’s were always in a kind, content expression. But, Gottfried is _far_ from the concept of kindness. With his and Dunlow’s eyes flinching away, the bound houndman turned his sights towards another figure that joined them soon after:

The manlet before him was very young, just as portly as Dunlow. Though, his broad shoulders demonstrated a certain degree of fitness. His shirt and bowtie matched that of Arnold’s. His navy jacket had a lining of faux-fur at the lapels, however. Much like Herr Guthund, this little guy had hazel hair and nut-brown eyes. It looked a lot more appropriate than on the frail mobster. The kid looked sharp and, judging by the expression on his thin lips, he knew he was. One may think it’s just a boy looking for the Good Hound’s attention. He WAS a renowned therapist, at least back in the day. But one distinct feature made Gottfried cringe and wrinkle his nose in concern; a notepad hung down from the lad’s neck. A silver pen next to it had a tiny umbrella imprinted on the cap. Now his face was very much recognizable.

Martin Vickers-Cobblepot wasn’t a very _public_ official, but his buildings and ships were Norway's best. Even at such a gentile age, he was rather well-regarded in the Scandinavian society. Even though it’s his family's oil rigs that brought the most black gold, his architecture that solved the refugee crisis, and his works of art that are being exhibited in Stavanger’s museums. Which was, admittedly, planned and built by yours truly. Every Norwegian knew who Martin is. Marty was a powerful man before his first birthday with two digits, but it’s truly just the beginning of his career. Gottfried Guthund knew every Cobblepot had some criminally-blue blood in them. The youngest of them wanted a piece. The Kennelmaster couldn’t figure the silent fellow out. For a moment, they simply examined one another. Martin had a first aid kit at hand and helped apply ointment onto Guthund’s cheek.

“Great,” the Hound mumbled, “Held down by the Songbird _and_ some faggot with a puppet. Fuckin’, peak of my career-”  
A loud slap then followed. The F-Word did NOT fly well around Martin. He’s going to use it as more evidence, though, as Cobblepot started scribbling something down in his notepad. Mute as he was, Marty needed a translator. Arnold was well-taught and well-mannered, so he could very well act as one. Wesker’s eyes, thus, flicked back to reality:  
“Thank you, Mr. Cobblepot,” The Ventriloquist said loud and clear while Mr. Dunlow fell asleep, “Mr. Guthund - w-would it be more convenient if Mr. Cobblepot wrote his speech down or if I translated it for you?”  
“Anything goes, pretty boy.” The Hound's disgusting wink... Appalled both of them. “Now schnell, _mon-cher Martin_ \- t’fuck you want from _me_ ?”

The hands of Marty’s went reeling, while the Muppet carefully observed his every move. Arnie’s lips moved almost involuntarily, as if he was entranced by his magical gests: “It’s v-very selfish of you to think I _want_ something, Kennelmaster. What I want - I take. It's S-Songbird's law and you must know it. Stavanger’s mine, uh...”  
“Songbird?” Gottfried spoke out of context, “Songbird, huh… I like that tag, Martin. Suits you well. Now go on, _Wesker_ !”  
“...A-uh, a-as I-Mr. Cobblepot was saying, I take what I wish. And I want my bills you haven’t paid for... The last month and th-three days. O-Oh and I want you to stop stealing people off the streets of my city, I’ll… I will financially cover the inconveniences.”

That was a phrase the Kennelmaster couldn’t understand. His ribbons were quite loose, so Martin kept close watch of him squirming. The Dog’s chest-rumbles are loud and clear now. So is the displeased look in his eyes. “And what if I won’t, Marty? What will you do? Make my banco go rotto?”  
Martin’s palms paused. Both russet gazes of the Dog and the Penguin flared up with interest. Then, the hands flicked and fumbled around again, and the Ventriloquist's lips moved just as swiftly:

“I-I-If you haven’t heard me the first time, I’ll repeat again; it’s not your money I want - I want your dogs off the streets and your disgusting shops to stop. I want you to find a better purpose for your talents, and I’m offering you a chance for that: You, you were a veterinarian, weren’t you?”

“I _was._ Once. I still am in spirit.”

“...W-Well, if you refuse my offer, the consequences will be dire. The authorities will come after you and they won’t be so k-kind!"

“Spare me the formalities,” Gottfried responded with an eye-roll, “I know what I know and own you know and own threefold, Songbird. The beauty of your Housebitch’s words won’t help with pushing me aside.” Suddenly, the Kennelmaster shifted onto his knees. Navy-colored bandages strained against his peculiar frame. Arnold gulped and Martin leaned forward. Plenty of photographs could be seen in his folder. Gruesome little pictures; Gottfried Guthund was the perpetrator of these butcheries. It never looked good for the latter, and yet somehow - the Good Hound always lives. His head was draped to the side, breath heavy and jarring, the stare in his eyes feral as ever: “... _Hmph._ You must be dying to know _why_ I do the things I do. Why I snatch the strays off the streets and turn them into purebreds. Why I don't tolerate humans. Their disobedience. Strive for tolerance, some odd progress... You see, Herr Kappelput, this isn’t about money, or power, or payback. Or even some silly gig for the fucking sake of it. It's about our _instincts_ \- it’s about the _thrill of the hunt!_ ”

The silk snapped from the Hound’s body. A loud snarl puffed through his nostrils, and the rabid eyes looked for any sharp object in their vicinity. A fork laid on a dressed table. It was snatched right off. Poor Arnie got into his grip, too, and the fork pressed right against his jugular. Foam formed on Gottfried’s mouth. It's the mouth-watering smell of antiquated meat. Wesker yelped for both Martin and Mr. Dunlow, but both froze on him in shock and terror. The Ventriloquist bucked and whined in Guthund’s arms, but a fork to the neck also petrified him. The Kennelmaster’s tongue traced a nasty, wet trail across his prey’s cheek. The wildling's stare shone towards Martin and his folder. The kid was frightened well enough, it seems. He’ll accept any demands for his Housebitch. And the Dog? He’ll definitely demand more as compensation.

“The dirt,” he said, “First give me the dirt, Marty.”  
And Marty obliged; he carefully put it onto the floor, then slid it over with his hands put up.  
“ _Zehr gut!_ You aren’t without reason. But without manners you are, indeed. A dog has more honor than your entire family, Cobblepot. Dishonorable twats like you deserve to be robbed. All your valuables down, or the Housebitch gets skinned!”  
“Please Mr. Guthund, there’s no need!” Arnie screamed at the top of his lungs, but-

“ _Halt die Klappe_ , Wesker!” The Kennelmaster bellowed, “I’m way past civil discussion. Your wallet, Marty! Now or never~” Fork sunk so deep into Arnold’s neck. Dollops of blood ran down its walls. The poor thing barely held back tears, choking sobs shaking his body up more than fearful tremors could. Eyes behind silvery glasses continued looking at Cobblepot’s hands, as they flicked slowly, calmly. Martin's words half-reassured him, and his other half was infuriated: “ _Don’t worry,_ _He’s half-bluffing._ ”  
Thus, the wallet was handed over to Guthund, too. If only Dunlow wasn’t sleeping at such awful moments… Arnie looked down at his new mate. He tried to shake him up, nudge his leg, do anything that’d put him out of his stupor! But Mr. Dunlow kept his eyes closed. Their operation was failing. HE failed his boss. He turned his back on the Kennelmaster, he didn’t check the ribbons, he didn’t do what was told. He’s to blame for his own suffering! Wesker’s eyes could barely read the symbols. His suit got wet with sweat. Thankfully, Dog went on a tirade; he’s shocked. His neck hurts. His legs want to bend so bad! Though dormant - it’s his foul-mouthed, wood-carved partner that keeps him standing. His presence was more fearsome than any monster, any _hound_ that might hold him captive. If the Muppet fails its Master, well…

Arnold Wesker’s lips were still, shivering. Yet a loud, crude yawn has gone through Dunlow’s lips. His eyes finally flicked onto Mr. Cobblepot - he looked more shocked than himself right now. “Oh you didn’t know? I thought you Penguin fucks always attached yourselves to that fucking shithole! You're a little pussycat, Martin - too _scared_ to go back? Well, you certainly aren’t welcome in mine. Now that we’re clear, uh… I suppose I could take your girlfriend, too.”

“OI!!!”

A distinct, silvery sound of a blade unsheathing made itself present. Then, the sound of flesh being torn apart. Mr. Scarface’s trusty Tommy did the job well, Arnie suddenly remembered. Guthund’s hot breath stopped and turned cold. A thud. A bellow. His swamp-colored suit now stained with dark sanguine. With his lips parting as Dunlow screamed obscenities, Wesker had to think. Fast: His body, now free from Gottfried’s grasp, lunged itself forward. A leg kicked the folder back to Martin. Though a bit of evidence slipped out, most atrocities were still documented. The Ventriloquist stumbled into Cobblepot’s grip, as he continued to run despite the protests of his partner in crime.

“You feckin’ cunt, I’ll feckin’ slit ya throat! Ya dinnae call my Muppet yer feckin’ gorlfrand ya piece a’ SHET, I’ll end ya in ya SLEEP!!!” And Dunlow didn’t stop. By now, both Arnie and Marty ran out of the penthouse, blind and deaf to their tormentor's screams. They saw nothing but the setting sun, heard nothing but the police sirens howling in the distance… And the Dog howled, too. He tried to run, but slipped on his own blood. Handless. Clueless. In Arnie’s eyes, this operation was a disaster; and it was his first case! God, he wanted to end it. He wanted to ask Dunny, so HE could finally end it all. And yet he, with a bloodied jacket and, uh… Wet pants, so to speak, he was embraced by Martin.

Although Arnie’s a lot taller than his employer - he still sulked down to look just a tiny bit smaller.

The Muppet and his Master fumbled around because the former’s pants were stained, and his cheeks were still red with embarrassment. The eyes of Arnold’s pensively looked downwards, and Dunny repeated his underling’s gestures: “So, Mr. Cobblepot, sir… Are, are we fired?”  
And the Bluebird reached for his notebook. His palms were shaking as much as Wesker’s, though Dunlow just muttered a ‘sawrey, Boss’ and crossed his little tinker-toy arms. Blood still dripped from that hook of his, staining the beard with its contents.  
Cobblepot then tore a paper out of his pad and handed it to the pair. It read:

“ _No. On the contrary, you acted just as I intended you to. Though I’d rather not see you sleeping on the job again, Mr. Dunlow - ask your ‘Muppet’ to make you more coffee, I suppose. I also think the Kennelmaster has learnt his lesson and my assets home are safe because of you. Thank you._ ”

“See?! Told ya we’d make it through, lad!” Dunny nudged Arnie on the shoulder as he nearly tripped over from impact, “Tho, what’s the plan of action now, Boss?”  
“C-Can we go change, please?”  
“Throw a rumble later?”  
“Some, um, some tea-”  
“Cold one wit' tha boys?!”  
And yet, another note was handed to the Ventriloquist:

“ _Good ideas, both of you! But, call Mom, first - I have to see her after I hand the evidence over. Guthund’s out of the game for good, and Mom will take care of that. Then we can go change, have tea, beer and cookies. Sounds well enough? I think it does. A job well-done deserves a drink well-done. Pop says so! But plans, Arnold, Dunlow… Plans always change._ ”

Wesker looked at the paper in confusion, with his glasses nearly tripping down to the ground. “What… What do you mean, sir? Is it very, um… Secretive?”  
Martin was already surrounded with the local task force, all while the Good Hound himself was led out of his kennel. Cobblepot smiled, the way his real father did, and that Arnold _Penn_ was quite familiar with. It was so mischievous and mysterious. Dunny grinned, too, but that’s just because he shoved a hook into his own wooden mouth. Why do his bosses always have to be so silly… But the Muppet saw something written on the back of the page. And that something was meant just for him:

“ _Get you and Dunlow dressed ASAP!!! Dad's out the game. Penguin, I mean. I have a new plan, Arnie! Let’s get to Gotham and finally play her game as Dad does_ _._ ”


	4. Out of the Gilded Cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And we are back in Gotham! Where Ignatius Ogilvy's getting out of a prison that seems... A bit too kind to his persona. As is revealed, Emperor Penguin's taken over power once again, and he's ready to make moves against his supposed 'father' in crime. SERIOUS moves. But for that, he'll need allies, and perhaps the arrangement of them might be rather surprising...

_@City Hall District, Gotham City:_

Blackgate. A place nothing short of _Hell_ for many. A profitable venture for others. Blackgate Isle is a place where people disappear serving time. A place from which so little escape nowadays it's become a foil to the revolving doors of Arkham Asylum. A place where the caste system was reinvented. It's quite a profitable venture, too. Current Warden’s been put on Gotham’s own Forbes Five Hundred. Nobody thought just an off-shore floating fortress on the rocks of Gotham Bay would hold so much money. Akin to some elaborate castle in the Scottish Highlands, it stood high and proud. Right next to Downtown, in fact. Tiny windows were at times the only sense of freedom the poor wandering souls of it had. A city ripe for the taking, and yet so far, as they are rotting away here. Many withered away. Many have grown, though, like sturdy moss of the northern seas.

Blackgate Penitentiary wasn’t a medieval castle not only on the outside; many knew of what happened within. How there were lords, kings - Warden usually was one. The lowliest of inmates, though, were worse than peasants. Mere tools, instruments, not worthy of any compassion. One man was determined to change that. He's earnt the respect of Blackgate's 'nobility' and average people. Mostly through beating ones, cajoling others and paying to the rest. The Warden’s tyranny was soon gone, too. With him turned to the lowest caste, whilst the Big Bird’s regime finally brought peace to the fortress. Much like Bane, said 'bird' had plenty of brains and brawn. This morning, his day of reckoning has finally come:

Ignatius Ogilvy, First of His Name, finally left his domain.

The King of Blackgate prepared to step out of his realm’s boundaries. It's a challenge, especially after such a long time away from Gotham. Ignatius never got a taste of good money in the olden days. But now? He’s been taught, no - he _learned_ how to carry himself: It starts off simple - white shirt, black pants. Nothing more, nothing less. Black socks match black boots with their buckles of bronze and copper. An equally-pristine, white waistcoat with brass buttons wraps around him soon after. It's tight. No surprise - Iggy’s a big man. A well-built one, too. Bit this tightness only accentuates his best features as it should. A greatcoat of black linen and lapels of lavish brown fur is put over it.

Then, the orange on top is added; a tie, so vibrant and silky, wraps around the shirt’s collar. Oh and, one more thing! A tie clip. A bronze emperor penguin at that. Another thing Ogilvy nearly forgot about is his custom-fitted monocle. Its outer surface blocked most of the light out. He won’t have to worry about bandaging his diamond-filled socket anymore. It cost his underlings great lengths to acquire such a coming-out present, but it was worth much more than just its golden shine.

Silence. Order. At long last, it settled in Blackgate. Not under the Warden, but under the King. Mayhaps that’s what the Islet needed? A proper leader? One that won’t abandon them, or won’t bend them over for the slightest pay raise? It worked for a time, and Ignatius needed it to seek vengeance against the man that made him King in the first place: The Penguin.

Thud. Click-Clack, Click-Clack. Emperor Penguin made his way out of the holding room to only exit from his fortress. The walls were just as yellow as the lights around them. Cheap, disgustingly-grimy floors creaked under the heavyset brogues, despite the pure concrete beneath the dirt. Must have been the Warden’s office. The Pigs are never clean. Ever. Even though Ogilvy despised Cobblepot, he’s grateful and respectful of his legacy, at least! But not these disgusting, swine-like creatures that lead him out of the pen. It’s obvious they’re scared, of course they are. Hostages in their own offices. All while the brutish lad, whose greasy hands slip off of him, runs the business in their faces… Snouts. Iggy grinned and grinned **wide** at the Warden’s proposition: He’s out, and it means the business has just gotten tons of new assets. **Good.** Cops holding him were already sold off like cheap harlots to the highest bidder.

By now, Ignatius half-expected a lynch mob to greet him at the door… He was right in theory: Swathes of petty journalists and flashing cameras pressed in. Their screams were worse than hungry hens'. How appalling. Iggy tried to maintain a straight face, finally making his way outside, but it only got worse from there. Were these idiots really expecting him to say anything? God, the situation was TOO rich! Even for Gotham! And he’s going to relish in every, single, second of it:

Sneers and jeers soon followed, then handshakes with these disgusting creatures. Ignatius saw nothing but spiteful glances, but they acted as if he was a movie star. Of course, he had to maintain a certain status like his artificial ‘father’ had. His proper dress is definitely making headlines in tonight’s lousy Zeitung. Finally, there's the safety vehicle - peace and quiet within. Quick! Iggy rushed to it with a couple more polite nods & curtsies. The insides were peaceful like... Blackgate. No riots, no screams - only waves of Gotham Bay put others to sleep. That’s all Ogilvy needed; silence, and respect. Two men joined him to push the journalists away. Flashes hurt his eye, his _healthy_ eye. He was grateful to Thumb and Tack, his two prominent ‘servants’, since they were just as quiet as he wanted others to be. And, at long last - he breathed easy in his car. In its cold, soulless insides. The Twins took the front. Thumb wore white, Tack wore black, but both had orange ties to support their King’s return. An all-black Mercedes of quite the old kind replaced the limo on the way home - the real home of the King of Blackgate.

***

Flick! Goes the lighter. The first cigarette of the day is lit. It almost felt like Iggy wasn’t out of Blackgate at all. A round table just like there, barred windows just like there, even the gray bleak interior! Just like in the fortress. The main difference being - now it was the city center, and it wasn’t the drug-running scum from the low end he’s dealing with; before the Emperor Penguin, there were two of the richest & most influential mobsters of Gotham besides Penguin himself: Former perfume magnate Roman Sionis, and a former district attorney Harvey Dent. Black Mask had this distinct smell of leather and tantric sex around him - much like the ‘industry’ this cowhide-faced freak ran in Gotham. And Two-Face, well… There was that aura of sulfur and cheap perfume that ran through his greasy, dark hair, whilst the other Harvey had no hair at all. It was an even more disgusting sight than Iggy’s hidden gash in an eye’s stead. So it seems all of Gotham’s worst have gathered up to finally place their bidding on who will be the next King in line.

“So,” Roman spoke in his gruff, smoke-hazed voice, “Real talk, Ogivly. No-bullshit: Why the fuck should we be 'friends'?”  
“Not friends,” Harv added, “Allies. Supporters, maybe.”  
“Yeah. Right. Supporters.”  
Ignatius casually scratched his scruffy beard in the meantime: “...That question is both ingenious and incredibly-stupid, Mr. Sionis. Sounds like you're dodging my proposal, in a way.”  
“Why, should we, support you?” Black Mask’s zipper-ridden frown appeared again, as his gloved palms sunk down to the conference table.

Dent remained silent, playing with his coin. Ignatius rose from his throne, so harsh and cold against his able-bodied self, then took a quick puff from his ciggie and made a rather sour face:  
“Isn’t money enough of a reason, gentlemen?”  
“Money’s paper,” Roman said, “Easy to burn and get rid of when plans fall apart.”  
“Speaking from experience, Mr. Sionis?”  
“Dent's experience. Plus, big-timers like us die like flies nowadays. I don’t see a reason why I shouldn’t put a bullet through your head like I did with the rest o’ the milksops.”

Another coin toss followed from Two-Face. He kept himself steady and quiet. Ogilvy paid no mind to it. His heels clacked across the spacious chamber in heavy, sturdy steps. Now he stood behind Black Mask. A knife put right beside the Leathery Kingpin, Emperor Penguin turned his back on him. How intriguing, especially for Harvey. Both his eyes now focused on Iggy as he took in deep breaths of fresh air. Oh right - the window was open. One slight push, and he’ll fall to his death. He looked outside - the City Hall was right before them. Oh, he’s _daring_ Rommy to do that.  
“Tell me, Mr. Sionis - what’s the gross profit margin of all your ventures combined?”  
“Eee-ugh… It’s not clear yet, but I think it’s more than forty?”

“I’ve collected six hundred and forty-three thousand, eight hundred and ninety without any interest or tax involved - I _am_ the creditor, after all. My margin's at least sixty-five percent. I’ve got no long-term liabilities but a single bank loan of ten grand which could be paid off in an instant. That’s just from _Blocs A, B & F, _ ” The Penguin’s firstborn thus strutted forward and leaned into Roman. That knife was dangerously close to his jugular, now. A grab, a slice - and the New King's done for:  
“And what of your, ah… Protection? I’ve heard you were busted by that Red Hood piece of shit, ain’t that right?”

“I…” Black Mask’s palm reached for the knife. But this single, soulless, god-awful eye stared right into his soul. He best put it down, then. “...Yes. Yes I was.”  
“He’ll be gone by the end of this week,” Ignatius said, “In a click of my finger, he can disappear and never crawl out of his fucking grave again. The same thing can happen to you, Mr. Sionis…” The knife was put up right against Iggy’s neck. Now he did it himself, as his forehead bumped into Sionis's: “...And Mr. Zsasz won’t be here to save you, either.”

The air in the Emperor’s Court got dense, no doubt. Although wind and rain were gushing from the open window, smoke from Iggy’s doobie flowed at a standstill. Even Mr. Dent was unnerved by such reckless behavior. For Ogilvy, though, the risks were already calculated. He rose from Sionis’s desk space and put the flip knife back into his sleeve. Then, Penguin dusted his coat and sat back down:  
“But of course, why would I do that? _Heh,_ I like that glint of anger in your eyes, Roman... _GHMM-HMM,_ back to business: To be frank, we need each other. I need you to get used to the outside world again. Maybe to keep other dimwits under control. And **you** need me for proper protection and information. Clear?”

The coin came clean to Mr. Dent again. This started to get irritating a long time beforehand, but this time - Ignatius leaned up close to Harvey and tried to pull off the same staredown, but _damn_ did it not go well; Two-Face had even less passion for, well, anything in his eyes than the Emperor Penguin, and the latter, thus, startled to ask his question: “Mr. Dent, uh… Is that really necessary for such an important meeting?”  
“It is,” Harv said, as the coin landed on his palm again; clean. He hummed. Something wasn’t right here.

“In fact, if not for this coin, I would’ve already shot you all through the head, got the money and tossed you off into the river.”

To say both Roman and Ignatius got startled would be an understatement. The two of them have already reached for their lapels and guns beneath them. But Harvey rose his arms and continued his proposition: “What I offer, gentlemen, is simple; we’re the strongest players of this lousy Gotham game right now. If we team up, we gotta share equal halves-”  
“Mr. Dent,” Iggy said, “Have you forgotten the title I hold?”  
“I have not,” Two-Face went on, “And I’m keeping it in mind. Once the Penguin’s ship is down, we go on our merry way to our parts of town. Done for. But until then - we share the same place, coin, and even spoons if we have to. You wanted a team, Ogilvy - then act like you’re the leader of one.”

Ogilvy fell silent for a good minute. Roman stepped up to Dent and sneered:  
“Forty-one per cent to me, twenty-five to Two-Face.”  
“Eh? And why’s that?”  
“Forty-six per cent to be, twenty to Two-Face.”  
“You Polack-”  
“Fifty-one per cent-”

“SHUT UP!!!” Ignatius slammed the table and… Broke a corner off. “Ah f-fuck… Act your age! Is what I’m saying. Stick to the plan! It’s a fair cut, for fuck’s sake! God…” A pause then followed. Two other mobsters looked down in a show of pensiveness. Iggy leaned back and flicked his finished cig off elsewhere. “...I’ve had this wish for over a decade, gentlemen. Every single option, every fucking mishap that might happen - I’ve already counted all the risks, all the liabilities and costs that come with it. Taking over Penguin is still worth more than all of the numbers I’ve spit unto you. I’ve put my _life_ into taking over my father’s business, _years_ into taking vengeance for my actual father, and I am not, going to, waste my time on charlatans… You aren’t. Hence, you’re here.

“And we answered the call, Emperor Penguin,” Two-Face spoke in a rather sultry tone - it’s Harvey now, “Do we, Mr. Sionis?”  
“Hrm. Fine. Yeah we do.”  
“The question stands, though - how the hell do we take over Penguin’s territory?”  
Now Iggy had a grin on his face. The eye gash still hurt, but he smiled through his pain: “Ohh, it’s just TOO rich, gentlemen! How do politicians usually sway the masses? It’s real simple, look; First, we work undercover. Silently. We offer the low-end crooks & peasants a better deal. Tax reliefs, less protection money, perks, all that shit. It’ll pay off in the long run, since we’ll have men within their structure. Then, Mr. Dent will act as the enforcer in case something goes wrong, and **you,** Mr. Sionis… You’ll rack up the cash that we drain out the Iceberg with. Once it’s, ah… Melted, I take over and leave us with vaultfuls of dough an’ all that happy-chappy shit. We’ll show Gotham better order. Better than during the days of Don Falcone - the Underworld will have their judicial, executive and legislative powers rearranged. No GCPD, no Bat-Brats. Nobody can stop us after this. Even the fuckin’ Clown. Capiche?”

“Wait,” Black Mask spoke almost immediately after, “You’re telling us that you’re-”

The sounds of glass shattering were so loud the three ‘lords’ at the round table tensed up; it was a **large** bird. A condor, to be specific. And it flew through the closed window, effortlessly, shattering it into a thousand little pieces. It landed on Ignatius’s forearm, a tourmaline necklace wedged into his beak. “Ah, right!” The Emperor gawked, “Meet Thasius. He’s my newest acquaintance. A very smart fellow with a keen eye for pretty things~ He’ll observe your progress along the way, and, perhaps, motivate you to put your best effort into our mutual plan. You’re free to go, gentlemen! I’ll have to feed this grandiose, magnificent monster!”  
With a glance between one another, both mob bosses rose from their seats and proceeded to saunter off, straight to the exit from the conference room. “Oh and, Roman!”  
“Yes, Ogilvy?”  
Thasius, as a matter of fact, sat on both of Ignatius’s shoulders, his wings spread far and wide, crowning the Emperor Penguin accordingly to his title:

“I know you’re upset. Don’t be - for if you try to betray me, you’ll wish you’d be deader than Jason Todd.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long! I had to take a short break from writing due to the exams and spring break haziness. The schedule will be returned to shortly.


	5. Thane of Codburgh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, there's another, final place outside of Gotham we'll be venturing to: The 'Free' City of Codburgh - a nasty place ruled by warlords like Lord Joshua Cobblepot. Here one will see what kind of town Codburgh stands as, as well as who the new Penguinling really is.

_@Free City of Codburgh, Scotland:_

Suffocating. That’s the only way one can describe this place. Codburgh never was a nice town to visit. In times of early spring, it fumes with that special smell that chokes out its residents; burning petroleum, mixed with blood and frozen dog shit. Rivers upon rivers of darkened waters ran down the cobble-paved alleyways, choking the life out of any grassroots that perked out of stone & concrete. Heavy smog covers Old Lady Coddy. Day and night. Traffic stops for a couple of days, nothing moves properly. It’s easy to bump into some homeless hag like that. Or worse. Not like anybody cared for dirt on the streets. And the ‘dirt’ always choked on the fumes the city’s richest. One could especially feel that gruesome atmosphere in the most dilapidated part of town; New Groningen.

Founded by the Dutch and the Azeri, this was previously known as one of Codburgh's ritziest neighborhoods. Antiquated houses with elaborate patterns and baroque statues were reminiscent of that time. However, once the Dutch left for New Hague instead, and the Azeri ran with their stolen goods, the hamlet’s poorest flocked up to the streets. Then it all took a turn for the worse; sleeping on pipelines and on roofs of apartment blocks became normal. Blood, vomit, and excrement now smeared across the crowded alleyways. Black gold mixed into this assortie of human waste, bringing Codburgh's inhabitants closer to their gruesome nature. With oil towers’ torches burning bright among such filth, blackened clouds of smoke mixed in with the smog. Codburghers choke and cough all the more violently ever since Old Lady Coddy clenched a black noose around their necks. 

Only three colors made up Coddy’s landscape: Black, red, and yellow. Yellow was the most common. Yellow sky veiled with shrouded clouds that summoned yellow rains of acid and yellow urine that dropped on yellow walls of half-gone buildings, numerous harpies of yellow gold placed upon their roofs, yellow lanterns, hell - even Codburghers’ faces were yellow. Bony faces of despair and malnourishment. Most of them covered in black stains. All in work, a petroleum worker’s worth was less than a cigarette pack. Men, women and children had to work… But for what? Food? Nada. Money? Gone. The Country? No flag here but Codburgh’s. Naturally, this delightful town has gained quite the infamy. Thus, total isolation from the Mainland followed. Although god-awful in some places, overall? Coddy’s quite posh in others. A city in the middle of the sea and the river bay, the farther one is from those murky waters - the better. Seven Corners Square was the opposite of that rule:

No place spoke of ‘criminally-rich’ like the Seven Corners. All of Codburgh’s biggest families had to build a mansion here: The Vanzeels, Sokoloffs, Abakumovs, Sandilands, Mniszechs, and Cobblepots. Our home seems… Modest in comparison. It’s not quite as large, looks more like a semi-detached condo, and it’s certainly more modern than the rest of those brutish giants, with their red bricks and white columns. To be fair, it looks like a damn courthouse. I never liked home all too much. But nobility isn’t a choice, you see - at least I get a free place to sleep in. Not like I couldn’t bust into any house and claim it as mine. They’re afraid of me. The ‘burghers. Mothers tell legends of my cruelty. But I’m not Vlad Tsepes, or Elizabeth Bathory, or any tyrant after. 

My name’s Josh. Joshua Fitzgerald Cobblepot-Lenskowitz. Duke of the Free City of Codburgh, by the rite of blood and gold. The dreaded _Rockhopper._ But whatever the fuck I’m called, you already know the drill: I’m **not** who you’d call a good person.

The bell rings for the umpteenth time. I fucking **hate** waking up. Especially when hungover. So I toss the old-arse alarm away from my sight, probably through the window. Then I turn onto my back and look up; the ceiling's still moldy, barely holding itself together. I’m home, for once. Sometimes, I really forget that I lie in absolute darkness and the curtains are shut. I see in the dark all too well, you'll see why later. Now I have no time for this shite; my hand searches for the shades - light hurts the retina so god-damn much - I put them on faster than a speeding bullet, then I jump out of the bed and open the curtains. My god-awful eyes may be god-awful, but they still see all the crude beauty this city holds. I love Coddy. I see all those steaming chimneys and burning towers, man - it’s something you don’t see anywhere else. And right as I did so, my handmaid, Olga, stepped into the room. God. It smells worse than it looks, it really does. Despite all the decent furniture, it still had this pungent stench of old oil and wet wallpaper. 

“Davay zavtrakay!” She says to me in her native tongue. It goes like, “Come getcher breakfast!” I’m silent, but I give her a full courtesy of a 'spasibo, Olga'. She’s been like a mum to me since Mum proper passed. And she worked for Uncle before I came around, so she knows how to handle a Cobblepot. I know better - listening to Olga never landed me in trouble.

So I get some trunks on. I don’t even know which ones I’ve worn the week before. As well as a bathroom coat to cover up SOME areas she wouldn’t want to see. When your body’s this disfigured, it’s easy to forget that it’s not normal. With the amount of scars I have, fucking Zsasz looks like a damn murderbaby. His scars are organized, made into art, and mine… They’re spread all across the board, big and small, thick and thin. So noticeable on my pale-arse skin, too. The biggest ones have landed on my face. Hey, you know how pretty I used to be? Yeah. A real handsome boy, Momma said. Now all I have left is my hair, but even that looks burnt and fucked-up after sixteen hours of sleep. I haven’t shaved or slept in three days, either, but it suits my current ‘entourage’. I couldn't care to. Especially with… Oh yeah, have I mentioned my nose is missing? Cool, right? There’s a biiig scar there, and half of my face is scar tissue. The rest, though? Don’t worry, I’ve got a prosthetic not long ago. Now the Rockhopper can brag about actually having an iron ‘beak’, you know. I pay it no mind, but it itches like a _bitch_ whenever I rub at it. At least we got running water here so I can shower to my heart's content. 

Now, let’s step back for a wee bit. I’m thinking aloud, aren’t I? Let’s also discuss the matters at hand: Why am I not a good person? I’ve been quite welcoming with you crawling into my head, aye? Well guess what: Fuck you. I didn’t invite you here, but you have to listen to me whining, anyway. Or, well, must you? I dunno, but since you're here, let me tell you: It doesn’t happen everyday. Becoming the duke of a hanseatic Scottish shithole with the highest murder rate in the world, that is. You think El-Salvador and Guatemala were bad? Welcome to Codburgh, mate. It’s not just piss and oil that run on the pavement here; black and yellow have to meet with red. Somehow, the main arsehole among murderous shitbrains is me - a scrawny, wimpy kid who dresses more flamboyantly than Elton John and wouldn’t have hurt a fly… If not for my time spent elsewhere. Basically, bruv - I **hurt** people. And I’m really good at it. That’s why I’m a shit person. Uncle, AKA the fattest pansy of Gotham City, is fine with me being presumably-dead. And so am I.

Now I’m here, and it’s all that matters. With Olga, fat quids, and a City of Harpies at my disposal. A little piece of Heaven in this domain of Hell. Poetic, isn’t it? I also think so. I’m ready to get to the terrace, to the March cold and melty snow, to Olga, my mum by gold... And a special someone I’ve grown to love _and_ hate.

It’s never sunny in Coddy. But you wouldn’t think it’s some kind of resort, would you? It’s a resort for _me_ \- definitely not for tourists. Moving on, it gets quite tiring for normal eyes to live in such kind of darkness. Bullshit. Comfort lies in dim, dulled-down colors of wood under my feet, in the smooth texture of a baroque armchair under my arse, in the way my polished teacup squeaks under my grasp. I… Can’t say such life is my type. After I’ve come back, nothing feels genuine. Even the most exquisite dishes and luxuries. Although, even electricity or gas is a luxury here. I have unlimited access to both. **F** **ar** more than that, even. And yet, I keep nurturing myself like a hurt pup, because the person of interest maintains a close watch over me:

“Theo.”

A White Rabbit and a Hound rested at the table's corners. Breakfast served - a plain old mash with some leftover brisket. Nothing much, but this will do. Olga also makes wonderful cocoa - not too sugary, but sweet as all hell, with the most wonderful syrup I can get for her. She never told me the recipe. I should definitely ask her later! Now, you might be wondering - who the hell are all these people? What do they look like? Are they rich?! Yes, they are rich, and they look like absolute circus freaks. In a positive sense, because finding freaks is my forte: Whilst tending to my Dog’s wounds, Theodore Eagleton, nee Sokoloff, let his hat rest next to his finished meal. It’s a top hat. White, a little worn, but still holding on to its dear life. It had its price tag intact - ten shillings and a sixpence - as well as his signature; fluffy bunny ears, also white as all hell. The ears' insides matched the pink ribbon that held them together, too. Cute.

The amount of white Sokoloff wears is… Uncanny. Especially considering he’s an albino. Yeah. I thought he’d want anything BUT more snow-white in his life, but it did suit him well! I bought Theo a fur coat - he's still not over it. I think he’s… A bit too eager to be with me sometimes, but with his talent for breaking others’ tech? I can manage. He’s a cute little lad, definitely. Rather fresh-looking despite his… Evident lack of sleep, dark spots under the eyes, and an awfully-skinny body. Long, luscious hair of pure white matched the pink skin perfectly, so much as those poofy white pants, white golfsocks, shoes, ugh! Everything's. And, I think you get it - he’s the March Hare. The _first_ March Hare. Abandoned by his creator and picked up by a miserable fuck like me.

And then there’s the Hound. Gottfried Guthund. The Kennelmaster. One _scary_ bitch, literally at that. Not a cunt I’d work with in a normal setting, though the current situation is anything but normal. While Theodor’s tending to his palm… Wait. It’s missing. He’s gotten into trouble, again. And I’m listening to him whine, again. He hasn’t washed for days, either, so the stench in my dining hall is less-than appetizing. Fucking furry bastard has learnt to act like his twisted pets. His shirt bloodied with his own juices and whatever else, face all scrunched-up and big, bright eyes staring _me_ down with a rabid glare. March Hare’s eyes moved up, too. I caught a mere glance of his glassy, shiny peepers: So pink and vibrant. Theo's worried, and so am I! Because I didn’t know what happened to Gottfried or why it happened now.

Why does everything have to be now?

“Lord… Lord Cobblepot…” The Dog mumbled through pain; he’s weary, lost a lot of blood. He’s reached his arm out to me, but first - he couldn’t do it, second - I’d never fucking shake it.  
“Quit it, Gottfried,” the Hare spoke out, “Juscht schit here and try not to wear yourschelf out…” Theo hand-fed him. Much like a soft young lady feeds her beasts. So fearful, but also having fun with his injured ‘captive’. His eyes turned back to me as soon as I cleared my throat:  
“I have questions, you two. First of all - the fuck happened to you, Hound?”  
The Kennelbitch stared me down with utter confusion: “...Your cousin-”  
“Shhh! He knowsch it already, you dummy!” Theodor patted Gottfried on the cheek. That only strengthened the latter’s growling. The Hare's hand flicked off, respectfully. “Tell him how the hell didja get yer arm schnapped off with a hook. By a _puppet!_ Hee-Hee!”  
“No,” I said, “The most important questions are whether you spit anything, and can you sew the hand back.”  
“Let me TALK!”

The Dog’s bark is strong when he’s pissed. I know better not to piss him off, and the Rabbit follows my orders. So we both sat down for a more civil discussion. Bunny’s got a cig, its fumes streaming through my lungs and taste buds. Mash is in there, too. Damn I haven’t eaten in a while. A growl turned into more whining since his stump was exposed to direct light from the bandages. Poor doggy.

“I uh… I apologize, Boss. It’s just… It’s my working hand, verdammt! And it was a slip. Got too sure, you know, it-it happens. I slipped, but only a tiny bit, uhm… Sheisse, Martin knows of the Penguin!”  
I lift my brow; Martin's a smart kid. Although we're quite different, I've respect for the little guy. Surely he must've mustered up SOME plans for taking over our homeland? Now I'm curious:  
“Wait, wait - so he didn’t beforehand?”  
“No Boss. No, he… He didn’t. He couldn’t have, I swear it-it wasn’t…”

That’s when it hit me. And it hit me **hard:** Marty, oh - poor Marty will have to suffer because of that dog-loving meathead. He slipped! All because he wanted a piece of my youngest cousin. This fucking idiot! And, it all reminded him of that one time he was stuck with Artemis Crock. He knew naught of her position, but she, too, was a victim of his misjudgment...

Knowing Martin, he won’t stop before he gets what he wants. Though his ethic's much more humane and softer, this just won’t do. I’ve prepared my plan for all these months, eliminating every obstacle in my path to success, and yet every single time, **something** goeos wrong. I don’t want Marty to suffer - he’s still a child! A damned milksop. He isn't ready... Ah fuck it. I reach for the table knife, my grasp is strong, the Kennelmaster slouches before me and Theo expects a show… But no. I put it down, I stare at him, disgruntled. The Mutt got my message. He slipped away from the table, out of the room, to tend to his wounds.

“Breakfast is over," I said, "Meet me in the office, ten sharp.”  
“Schure thing, M’Lord!”

***

Windy and rainy are the two seasons Codburgh goes through during the year. March was this very strange, nasty period when they combined. Joshua loved it - nothing shows his town’s nature better; it's cold, wet, grimy and filthy. Filthy to the bones that rest in those petroleum fields, in the estuary of Brumble River, in the Abbey and Codd’s Cove... Everywhere. Lord Cobblepot knows his relatives would love it. Shame most would never come here… Alive. Or sane. He also knows his perception’s twisted at best, but… One can’t help himself when what happened to him happened. He never speaks of his experiences, as the March Hare knows, but the March Hare knows much more than others. He, too, is good at keeping secrets; more circuits than flesh, his brain’s quite different from a normal person’s. Coddy is anything but normal, so its self-proclaimed nobility isn’t quite sane, either.

Josh was at dress now. Shoes of bright-brown hide and bloodied bottoms wrapped around his legs, their pointy tips & heels clacking against the attic's padding. He’s nervous. A coat of black bearskin sways from his dutiful pace, as much as the fluffy paddling of yellow & bloodied fur did. Fur of some kind, really - it’s so caked in blood it’s hard to remember. White shirt, gray waistcoat, a necktie of black leather matching those bloodied gloves of his, and of course - Joshua’s trusty sledgehammers, finalized his look. A proper Rockhopper he is, with blood-red lenses flashing in the room’s dim candles. A complete contrast to the March Hare and his much lighter palette. The latter spoke, nervously:

“H-Hear me out, okay? You don’t _have to_ kill Marty, juscht dischcourage him from taking over!”  
“It’s not Martin’s life I’m taking, Fyodor - it’s the others that will fall before his eyes. That concerns me. He’s not ready for the hell I'll unleash. I’ll have to wipe his entire clique out-”  
“And you don’t have to do _that_ , either!”  
“It’s the _rules,_ for fuck’s sake! Codburgh’s rules!”  
“We won’t be in Codburgh no more, Josh,” Theo stepped up just a little closer. His palm grasped Joshua’s wrist - right where the hammer rested, “We’ll be in Gotham Schity. Not the baddescht town in the world! But truly the biggescht of all mob gatheringsch. Thesche ‘rulesch’ got to change. Can’t go ‘round the schtreet’sch freely, can’t go crackin’ people-headsch like coconutsch. Right?”  
  
“Right,” Lord Cobblepot grumped out. His gloved hand is caressed by the gentle little creature, smiling with his buck-toothed smile more than Gotham's Hatter ever could. “It’s never the intention, really. They have _bats_ and _robins_ there. As well as an actual task force, not some fucking wee lads with water pistols… But yes. A handful will have to go. Maybe a little more, depending on how ritzy Uncle’s whelps are.”

“But a _handful_ ischn’t the entire fucking _Narrowsch_ , am I correct? And yeah, yeah - I remember the plan, I’ve it schtored in ‘ere!” Tap-tap goes the Bunny’s noggin, and the sudden twitch-twirl of it almost made the Rockhopper spin: “Schorry. Well, we go to Gotham, get a crib, kill a buncha mob boschesch, then let the rescht of them bend the knee, kill Rupert Thorn, Iggy, Ethan, maybe Martin… Maybe everyone, akchually- BASCHICALLY, Josh, you’re Macbeth now. You’re more Macbeth than Macbeth himschelf, **_hmph._ ** ” Fyodor stepped away and sank into a lush armchair. His arms were crossed, but then he opened up his laptop: Keys struck with supersonic speed, Sokoloff chose to be and not at hand of his King. Lord Cobblepot pulled the lanky lad up and sat in the chair, himself, letting Theo rest upon his lap:  
  
“We’re not finished.”  
“I know.”  
“So tell me what bothers you.”  
“Unh… Scho, firscht of all, Josh - the Dog isch _not_ a good ally. He sch-hmellsch, hisch mannersch are awful and he’sch bugging me all the time. Not the type of guy you need to have for being a good King.”  
“I know,” Josh grumbled, “But this will have to do. We need his expertise.”  
March Hare's attention was fully on Josh now: “You know, I’m really schorry for schaying that, but… You’re hurting. You're angry. Way too angry, Joshy! And I’m hurting becausche of that con’schequentially! Maybe… Maybe we don’t need thisch Gotham thing? Look at Coddy - life’sch _good_ for usch! No pettykilla will dare approach the manschun, all the schtuff isch here. Why bother? Juscht a family thing?”

Joshua fell dormant. Fyodor squirmed on his legs in anticipation. “...Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. You know how diligently I’ve prepared for this, _Theodore_ \- all of the ships in this yard are mine. All the land in this town is mine. All oil is mine. The people are mine. Their minds are mine! But I still feel like I’ve been tossed aside. I’m the bratty child nobody wanted. Or wants for that matter. Not even Uncle, who turned out to be the biggest piece of shit among alla them relatives. Fucking **curs**! Nothing… Feels the same after I’ve crawled out of the Catacombs. Even though I’m Lord of Codburgh, how can this be that I still feel not whole? Gotham is my _home,_ Fyodor. There’s no point in denying that, as there is no point to my existence. And yet, I wish to bring a new tomorrow to its people, to lessen their suffering and demolish the _pigs_ that serve ‘em unjustly. My home, my real home, could use a clean-up from the bats, the cats, other penguins, whatever the case… I’m a terrible human being, babe, but I wanna prove the Underworld _can_ help the people. That it’s still worthy. That _I_ am still worthy of my name.”

An immeasurable amount of unbridled excitement sparkled in the Hare's face. His gloved fists clenched tight. Fyodor squeaked and provided the Rockhopper with a one-man round of applause. Furthermore, he jumped from his warm, leathery seat and started waltzing around akin to his Lord: “HEEEEEEE!- You’re scho good at thosche sch’PEECHESCH!!! I’m ekschited for that schitt! Look, look - I know the abscholute _bescht_ people in Gotham. Fuck the Dog, fuck them hoesch! I’ll getcha Crane, I-I’ll getcha Ratcatcher, I’ll getcha whoeverthefuck but PLEESCH, Joshy! Take me with you~” With the laptop tossed aside, Theodor draped himself over the teapot-filled table. Thankfully, Lord Cobblepot was there to hold him!  
“So the Narrows it is,” he said, “It’s time for us to gather up before the rest depart, my darling. All hail, Theodor! Hail to thee, thane of Glasgow.”

The orders were already given while the two of them had rest at the Manor. Olga already boarded the helicopter. Lord Cobblepot is pleased, though he gets a quick peck, then a lip-bite from the Bunny: “All hail, Joshua! Hail to thee, thane of Codburgh.”  
The Bird had the Bunny by the wrists, but the Bunny had the Bird, too. The two of them spun around, together, light mixed with dark, whilst their underlings wailed beneath:

“All hail, the Dim-witted Duo! Thou shalt be kings thereafter! Ha-Ha-Ha!”

And so they kissed, and kissed, and kissed until their breath ran out and the sledgehammers fell. It’s a curious tale, isn’t it? Two abandoned children, brought together by misery, living their best in a city of false hopes, only to depart to a megalopolis of more despair than one can imagine. A hacker of tech and a hacker of heads, dancing in unison their bone-rattling dance of death, which, in turn, sparks more beauty for the common man. More beauty than one can comprehend. And so they spin upon the boats and helis with their henchmen, to get to Gotham, for vengeance and a better future, abandoning the lost piece of Scotland like parents that abandoned them. Who knows what shall this new arrival bring?! One thing’s for certain - Emperor Penguin won’t be too happy...


	6. The Season's Greetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, we come back to Gotham, to see how the police are dealing with the side of things, where the Batfamily in all of this hassle stands and what are Ethan Cobblepot's predictions for the next couple of months. With Easter coming soon, he's being quite... Observant of his targets, as well as peers he seeks to find. It truly is a mystery which Cobblepot will gain the Penguin's throne, if they even will...

@Iceberg Lounge, Gotham City:

“Hu-urgh!"

A steady, sensational grunt. So eloquent, powerful. Lady Solust glimmered in delight at her newfound partner. If one could even call it a partner, really: Bullock bent over a couchette, huffing like a sad little puppy. The only thing that stopped his teeth from clacking is the belt he bit into. Blood streamed down his back. Slowly, diligently. Like sap from an old, weathered tree. Crimson dollops painted the carpet of white fur. So were the many sheets on which Harvey rested. Sweat, much like lemon juice, worked its way into the deepest of lashes. The Bulldog sang his pretty songs for the bird that always sang prettier: Lark. The only woman who understood his pains.

For the first time in ever, GCPD's top hound felt in need of a good lashing. So many poor decisions, truly bad situations he had to be in - all poured out in literal pain instead of nagging mental shadows that idly tormented his mind in a booze-induced comatose.

Another lash. Another groan. One hundred and thirteen. The cycle repeats itself.

Another lash. Another groan. Bullock’s losing consciousness. He hasn’t forgotten the safeword, no. Just a little more to get over the edge, to get to the summit…

Another lash. Another groan.

And there he snaps, losing himself in wanton torment. Harvey felt the heat radiating from his burly self, as the spine was too weak to support him now. He fell to the floor with a quiet thud. Penny, concerned, quickly rushed for help. An equivalent of Alfred to Mr. Wayne, Penny's a proper guardian of Mr. Cobblepot. Medical skills were a must-have. Especially with such a princess as he! So Harv knew he’s in good hands. But the drunken Irishman’s too hazed-off to feel any touch now.

“Bullock! Bullock!” Lady Solust shook him up the hardest she could. A well-built chick, she’s managed to get his attention from the second try. Harvey lifted his head, droozily and lazily, akin to a half-sleeping pup. There was so much drool around the belt he chewed on, and the latter fell right down onto the floor, akin to a half-eaten leathery viper. And so the snake slithered off into the corner of Oswald Cobblepot’s office. Something sinful, and yet so divine happened here. Detective, for one, felt amazing, but the Penguin’s handmaid felt mortified. Her eyes glistened into dim lights of Harv’s:

“I’m…” he groaned, “...I’m alright, Ma’am. Sum’n wrong?”  
“Oh no, bub. You ain’t looking fine to me. Think that’s enough for the day.” Then, Penny finally put the stick down, coated in blood just like her user. This’ll have to be washed not once, not twice - thrice. “...Why didn’t you say it?! Forgot it, or something?”  
“The safeword?”  
“Yeah”  
“Nawh,” Harvey slumped further down. His legs were spread, thumb poking out of a dirty white sock. Bleeding back resting against the bedsheets. This was unusual for the two of them. Especially for Penny, who sat right next to her client and stared into a wall, dumbfounded and lost in thoughts. “I uh… I needed it.” A rough, masculine hand reached for Lark’s wrist, just as strong as his. The cigarette in Penny’s mouth made Harv cough out loud, so the fine young lady quickly cut it out.

Oh, the blissful silence.

The two could feel one another’s heartbeats through the thin, choked-out air. Their heat formed a nice blanket of comfort around their bodies, as the shoulder-to-shoulder interaction. “You don’t smoke, now do you?” Lark giggled to herself. Bullock supported it with a faint chuckle: “Nay - my preferred poison is some good fuckin’ rye.”  
“Whiskey?” The bigger bird got up from her seat, then reached into her boss’s desk and pulled the finest bottle of rye whiskey he's had. “Knew you’d be my kinda guy, but not THIS much.” A pair of short, stout glasses clinked on the floor. Lady Solust handed one to the Detective.

And so the bubbly poured.

“Wow you look down,” Harvey said, sully green eyes focused on her sour face: “What’s gotcha like that, Ma’am?”  
“It’s… Everything, Harv; Oswald left me here, alone, and he expects me to guide HIS people to victory. Like, I’ve never run shit so big, you know? EVER. And it happened to fall into my hands! Just like that! I don’t know if I’m even capable of handling it like Mr. Cobblepot does...”  
A large palm suddenly landed on her back. Harvey really did look like a sad puppy, especially with his unwashed hair and scruffy stubble: “Then do it like Penelope Solust does! One thing I can tell ya is that this place is much more quiet and peaceful without him being around-”  
“-That I can hear, yeah!”  
“Hah! See? Already a big friggin’ plus! And, I knew damsels that ruled Gotham when they were younger than you, but…” The Detective’s face suddenly got a little bitter: “...Penguins eat fish.”  
“I… See? Still - don’t you think it’s… A little wrong? What we do in his stead?”

A shrug then followed. Actually - the two of them gave off lousy, mutual shrugs. Laughter can’t be held back anymore, so the Lark and the Bulldog giggled akin to madmen they served.   
“I, personally, see nothing wrong in this,” Harvey burbled out on his own accord, “Peng- Oswald’s enjoying himself regardless, you’re doing it to make yourself happy. To make me happy, too, I’unno. You’re a great person, Penny! An’ don’t let any jerk tell you otherwise!”  
“I try to make my boss happy, of all things. But if you say so~”  
“Of course. Now, do we gotta clean shit up, or do we just gotta sit here till we freeze our asses off?”  
“Quit it, boy! It’s yer back that’s naked, not the arse!”

There were many things Lark couldn’t tell, shouldn’t tell. The Iceberg is surrounded by the wolves, which bite more painfully than ever. But, one must let the wolves feed on their own remnants, since it’s the penguins that pose the real threat to its existence. It felt so tranquil in this realm of ice one must’ve forgotten of the big-time rave going on down below, below the spires.

And so the spires held a Lark and a Bulldog, nestled in the Penguin’s nest more comfortably than his chicks ever were.

***

@GCPD Central Precinct, Gotham City:

“Ghh-drat, this eye-twitch will be the end a’ me!” James Gordon’s voice boomed from the office. His blinks were chaotic, uneven. It was a strange feeling, one he wasn’t used to. Glasses usually worked against such a thing! Oh God, was it really time to get a new pair? Such a mess in the Department was never welcome, but the case was even **more** special. The projector flickered left and right, distorted by an antiquated, cracked lens. Case files stacked upon one another with exponential proportions. Dozens of cases unraveled, previously thought to have been solved. Nothing was right. Nothing went smoothly any longer. As if it's ever like this in Gotham City, though. Its gallant protectors got used to peace and quiet after its refurbishing.

He had to get up. He just had to.

“Alright everyone!” His voice, loud yet tranquil, rang through the PD’s ancient building, “I need your attention right here.” A hand, lazily thrown into thin air, landed on the projector. The stool beneath it squeaked upon impact, though the lens somehow remained. The entire GCPD turned their sights to the screen. Gordon sighed, let the cigarette ash be spread with his own hot breath, and stopped the slide-show on Gotham City’s riddled-out map:

“Don’t even know what news I should start with… We’ve got ‘em good an’ bad an’ something in between…”  
A wave of low-toned chuckling flowed through the crowd. “The good ones!” some said.  
Even the Commissioner himself snickered. Though, it never meant anything good in the ‘good’ part of the news to come: “Well uh… The Penguin and the Riddler are gone!”

Awkward applause muffled Gordon out. Eventually, it quieted down along with all the wooes and whistles, so Jim continued:  
“Great job Alvarez, great job Mullaney and others in charge of the operation. They’ve gone out of town, but we’ve lost track of ‘em a couple days ago. The bad news is…” A cough stifled his speech again, “...We might be on a brink of the biggest gang war since the Maronis' downfall. I’ll show you why:”

With a single flick, the slides switched off to a quick dossier of a certain Blackgate prisoner; a rather able-bodied, blond male, nearly seven feet tall, with broad shoulders and a pristine jawline, framed by a full, pale-blond beard. One could stare in his vibrant blue eyes for days and find nothing in them… Well, one eye. The other was replaced with a gashing black wound and a big, nasty scar across most of the face’s left half. There was a real Cobblepot nose there, too - most officers knew who the culprit is:  
“As you all know, Ignatius Ogilvy, also known as the ‘Emperor Penguin’, has recently gotten out of Blackgate Penitentiary on parole. Penelope Solust, also known as ‘Lark’, is the current owner of the Iceberg Casino. So far, we know that Ogilvy has connections in the underbelly - Lark does not. He’s got access to more guns and men than her. Do the math, you’ll get one hot climate real soon… But this isn’t the only Penguin we should be worried about.”

Another flick, and the mug of Ogilvy’s switched to a complete and polar opposite: A scrawny, lithe face. Another stuck-up mug. This wasn’t a mugshot, but instead a low-quality, stretched-out photograph of a man that looked a lot older than he actually is. Barely-visible freckles covered his cheeks, whereas the nose… It was absent, and a prosthetic of stainless steel took its place. The eyes, large & round, hid under a pair of bright-red pince-nee shades. Well-dressed and with his dark-brown hair glistening, the Rockhopper looked better than ever. “It is rumored that Joshua Cobblepot, the Penguin’s nephew, is still alive and well overseas,” Jim added, “A fugitive and a rumored deserter, we've no idea what this man is capable of. However, if and when he comes, we need to be looking for all kinds of trouble. Furthermore,” another flick, “Martin Vickers has roots to Cobblepot. He’s coming to Gotham City for the Easter art fair at the Gotham Mint. Rumors are his clique holds control most of Norway's oil, but that’s not our concern... Not yet. And most importantly!”

James Gordon stopped to catch his breath. His eyes caught a glare from downstairs. A cold, chilling glare only a Cobblepot could muster. Also blond of hair, also rather slim in shape. Truly disappointed with what was about to be said, Ethan Cobblepot stopped square on his feet. his arms carried off yet another stack of boxes full of case files. Exoskeleton-powered, of course, they lift more than Ethan could. He didn't even groan or budge anymore. The way he looked at Gordon… Commissioner stifled another short cough, then finished his water off and flicked his wrist; they chose one ugly Blackgate mugshot, too. God, it looked awful… Ethan picked up his pace. A week at the Department, and all he’s heard is how ‘evil’ he is. Here the old man goes:  
“...Most importantly, hmm - Ethan Cobblepot, Oswald Cobblepot’s own son, has been transferred from Seattle to our department as part of federal exchange practices. Look, the Cobblepots are increasing in this town. We need to do our best to prevent the civilians from getting harmed.”

James evidently wanted to say something else, but his knees felt weak. He leaned onto the desk, papers pushed aside, then threw a distant glance across the entire hall. All listened. Despite their work, mental state - nobody even flinched. If someone dropped a pin, he’d hear it. It provoked a smile. A gleeful smile, A coffee-ridden, taco-munching, pitch-perfect cop smile.

“That’ll be all, please go on.”

His chair-plop was louder than expected. Gordon's back almost tripped over the back of it. Thankfully - someone was there to support him, and that someone was his daughter; Barbara.  
“Barbs?!” He gawked, “What are you doing here and now? Aren’t you supposed to-”  
“Be at Gotham Clean Energy after yet another attempt at bailing me out again? I left it for Jenny to figure out. Felt like Pops needs some help and I wasn’t wrong~ You ever wonder, why the hell would Cobblepot leave? Why now, of all times? A bit too early for spring break, don't you think?”

“I don't care about what Penguin's doing. All I hope he is,” Jim stopped and made a face, “is that he’s gone. Finished. Over. That’s all I want. One villain less. But there are four more of 'em coming, argh!”  
“I know, Commissioner, I know… Permission to speak freely?”  
“You already had it when you entered here,” Gordon said with a sour mug.  
And Barbs, well… She looked concerned:

“Alright. Uhm... Maybe you shouldn’t go that hard on Ethan. He’s not the boy under his dad’s… ‘Wing’, you know. He’s a good man, I try my best not to doubt he is!”  
“Me too, darlin’. Trust me - I _want_ to believe he’s a good man, but Cobblepots - they don’t have it right. Never had. They’re a long-running family of mobsters and embezzlers. First London, then Codburgh, Birmingham, Hamburg, Gotham... It's a dangerous game, Barbs. We cannot let the entire family get together, because if they do - they will ruin what has been built with blood of good men. Our men.”  
“Someone’s been reading lots of history books, ah?” Despite the awkwardness of the situation, Ms. Gordon tried to keep the good spirits up. Hell, Barbara even nudged Gordon Sr. on the shoulder! But, seeing as he’s about to fall asleep right on his desk, her smile dampened down.

“Well… Speaking of Ethan - I’ll go check up on him now. Couldn’t catch up for days, and now he’s probably mad at me, too, hnh~ Well, if you need me - please tell me… Like, call me… Later, Dad.”

***

@Warehouse District, Gotham City:

**“Preposterous!!!”** The screams of his were loud, relentless. Although, glass shattering easily extinguished its sounds; a couple of glass jars came crashing down from their corners. Thankfully, no frames or other devices were broken, Merely the jars and the spare parts they had in store. All has gone to waste. Not like Ethan paid much attention to this scrap; it'd go to some spare projects, anyway. But, his anger could not be withheld:

“I’ve had enough of this!”

With the green screens flickering to life and proper lights dying out, Ethan Cobblepot wanted nothing more but weep. So he wept, and he wept loud. Some say words can’t pierce a man this easily, but with Blacksun - it was different. Huge, choking sobs rumbled across the abandoned warehouse. Was he really that hurt? How much DID it hurt? He couldn’t be so sure. It’s a tiresome day, nothing more, or the overwhelming stress of working in Gotham. And of course he isn’t like this! He isn't a damned villain! Not anymore. “Time with Father cost me dearly,” he told himself, “But I am not HIS! I’m not WITH him! Why, oh, why?!” A face sunk down into his gloved palms, the only cover that he’ll ever have besides this humble abode:

The pink-ish eyes glanced across the spacious hall. It was anything but empty, and yet it felt like such. Old cloth laid itself across multiple computer tables, acting as monitor-blocking rags. Of course, Ethan had plenty of access to good tech from Q-Corp nowadays, but it was still much more preferable to keep his shelter frugal. Cops would be stirred up real good now that Gordon chose to stir himself awake. Awake from the boozehaven that was his home.

But wait - how **did** Ethan know of Jim’s habits? He never kept it at work, after all. The answer’s simple; surveillance. Despite the rugged state of his quarters, Blacksun had untraceable surveillance tech he could possibly find to put his mission to success. Thus, high-end flatscreens hung on rusty metal poles that supported a dilapidated metal roof. Its lights, green like emeralds, shone down onto his rag-covered chair like an array of spotlights. There was an aura of both chic and dirt-poor. Somehow - Ethan was comfortable with that. After wiping his tears, a gloved palm reached for the unfinished can of coke… The thirteenth can this day. Fingers, lithe as ever, stroke the keys with utmost precision. Then, with the systems booting up, Ethan spoke into a microphone that hung from one of the many support beams:

“Day twenty-one, March thirteenth, recording U-S-one-three-one,” the speakers reverberated with his light, sing-songy voice:

“This day onwards, three weeks have passed since the researcher’s initial attempt at infiltrating the GCPD. Which has been a, uh… Limited success. However, as Nygma used to say - there are two keys to success; one of them is never revealing everything you know. And the researcher seems to know about… Yes, six and a half terabytes more than everybody surrounding him. The state of his relationships is lukewarm at best, but he’s already digressing far enough. The Riddler’s voice-tracking system seems to be quite operational at keeping his mind consistent and up-to-date with the current events, since they are of utmost importance. Alright, ehh… Stick to the plan; let’s get to it…” Another couple of taps, and the feed focused on the location of not just Gordon and his task force, but ALL possible locations of other Cobblepots, and those related to them in any possible way:

“Now, as a matter of fact, I suppose the future me would like a little recap of what happened thus far. Let’s start with that, shall we? Well um, I suppose Ogilvy’s out of jail. Nothing surprising - he’s revered as a literal GOD by Gotham’s Underbelly, as I’ve managed to learn from the cops… And speaking of them - they’re entirely oblivious to the information I know, and they think I’m just some plain weirdo who works for the big guys only because I have daddy issues… Nothing surprising, but funny, isn’t it? There’s nothing more satisfying than being your opponent by their own rules. That’s what Dad used to say, ehm… He’s in Capetown. No, a little farther than that, even. I’ve got him in my sights right now, and… Yes, he’s dining. As expected. The cod looks yummy! Urph, if I had any time to rest… Nevertheless. Back to Ogilvy, though - boy he’s got lots of connections, especially in the Iceberg. He’s raising troops, he’s got influence… It’s not looking good for Dad over there, while he’s away from his precious belongings. Simply delightful to see the way he’ll squirm all over the news, hm-hm~ And here - here comes the underdog. Literally!”

A single tap at the monitor, and a close-up of the Rockhopper appeared: Up to no good, Joshua was in the Warehouse District, himself. Far from his warehouse, thankfully Ethan shakily took a deep breath, then continued his report: “...He’s right. HERE. I’ll obliterate him if he comes even close to the Nest. But, he’s on his own, with just this… White Rabbit sort of deal he’s got going on. Personally, I don’t think he’s a real threat to my championship to the utterance, but we’ll see how it goes for the next couple of weeks. Martin’s here, as well. A recent arrival, this Vickers dude, but I already hate his guts. Just look at this slug later, sleazing himself all over the paintings in the Kean Gallery… Fucking pathetic!”

Blacksun rose from his makeshift throne. Despite his best attempts to distance himself from the last name of Cobblepot, the Cobblepot temper is always a part of him. Loud plaps of his wide, short feet clambered all around that ‘Nest’ of his, little stomps audible even outside of its premises. “The Cobblepots,” he added, “are a pathetic, shriveling mess compared to what we had in the past. I cherish it, I really cherish my bros, and Dad, but… What they did to ME, what they did to Nygma, what they did to Barbara… What I did to Barbara: It can’t be neither forgiven, nor forgotten. The goal of this research is to show, that Cobblepots can be better than the Penguins they are! The goal - is to survive. Just like the Riddler, a true father figure, always did. We’ll make Gotham smart. We’ll make Gotham City realize that, well… My family are NOT criminals! I’m not, that is…”

“Nobody will ever doubt my genius after the stunts I'll pull off. Especially not Barbara, or Gordon, or Mr. Queen, himself… I'll help my city better than Dad ever could. I don't have money, but I do have something much more important - a _brain._ End record.”

Ethan tossed the microphone aside, and let the cord wrap around yet another support beam. He’s going to be better than what he saw on the many screens; a bickering, angry mess of people. Ready to clash, blood against blood, for the artificial throne of Gotham. He’s going to be Her new protector. Someone better than Oracle, Penguin, Batman, in order to conquer the hearts of both his beloved and the desperate, frustrated people of his hometown. Although just as rich as his relatives, Ethan was truly a Raven among Penguins. No luxurious quarters close to GU were given to him. Though, the territory close to it was rightfully his. Sounds of gunfire came through the monitor - of course it was close to the Iceberg, in the middle of Gotham Bay; Border Control. As per usual, the poorest tried to sneak into the richest. Fatally this time. All Cobblepots BUT the main one are in Gotham now. All Ethan had to do is wait until they’ve slaughtered one another. Oh, and took some pigs with them, too! That’d be great! Blacksun put his boots up onto the table and watched the chaos unroll, with a big, bright smile. His monocle pulsed in flashes of light, which signified numerous alerts across the city.

“...I'm so hella weird," Ethan said after an awkward pause. He got distracted, much like his father. His fatherly figure - the Riddler. So much pity filled him up, now. Even Ed will have to go! And Dad will pay for his pain. But Ethan needed to crash down, since he had plenty of info to absorb. Eyes got too heavy for the screens' light to flicker into. Cobblepot tripped on his own feet and landed straight onto the floor. Padded with cardboard & cloth, he stuck the landing smoothly. So much water, thoughts to absorb. And rain, oh, so much rain.


	7. At the Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuck in South Africa, Penguin, Riddler and Viktor Zsasz have a debate on what to do, Gwen comes up with a new plan on gaining leverage in her hometown, and now that all the Penguinlings have flocked up to Gotham. And the final decision promises to be quite spicy!

_@Suburbs of Capetown, SAR:_

Blam! Slam! Kapow! Woosh! No item in the Solust villa was spared; vases flew left and right as the man in green meticulously caught them. Statuettes tripped down from the shaking shelves. Some precious items broke down, and when they did - the old bird’s screams only got louder.

Ed hasn’t seen Oz so upset in a damn long while.

“We are going back,” he wailed, “ **Tomorrow** **!!!** ” Ed was silent amid this chaos. Zsasz never talked when Oswald was like this, either. Both of them knew better, as the main man lost his marbles for the umpteenth time.  
“You know,” Edward mused, “For the first hundred times you threw these tantrums, I was honestly worried about your health. But I’m amazed! You’re doing fine, and you’re going to say literally the opposite after a couple of minutes. Maybe you should just, uhm, _calm down?_ ”

Penguin lumped over to the Riddler with belly-riding speed. The sides of his shirt were gripped so tightly he nearly tripped onto the soft bird: “This is not ‘ _one of those_ ’ tantrums, Nygma?! This is an **emergency!** I have a ship that’s going to sink _down_ without me, because…” And then his voice cracked in a rather embarrassing way: “... **Because all my relatives are there!!!** We are gathering the fuck _up_ and flying back to Gotham, or else I’ll die before the embarrassment of being taken over by my own children takes place.”

“No. We are not flying anywhere, because I have a plan-”  
“ **You always have a…** You always have a plan, Edward,” Finally, the screaming and thrashing stopped - if only for Oswald's wretched cough, that made him bend over and sulk back down onto the couch. But it didn’t make Cobblepot sound any less bitter: “These people, Edward… You’ve raised Ethan, yourself. You’ve known Martin for long while. You have an understanding of how _dangerous_ they are if we don't bring them to our own cause. They’re going to chew Penny up and not spit a single fucking _bone_ of ‘er out. I’ve… _We_ have raised them.”

Nygma clicked his tongue as soon as Oswald finished. There the shortie stood, panting and barely holding himself on his stubby legs. At first, Ed wasn’t even sure whether he could catch him or not, but as soon as he inched closer, Cobblepot just… Leaned into him and stuffed his face into his stomach. There was no natural instinct left in the Logician. Or so he thought, since his palms instinctively caressed the poor bastard’s head with utmost intent and care. “Look. Coming from me, I know it may sound super-duper-ultra-dumb, but probability and coincidence are a thing! For example - let’s say you go to a completely different, high-end fish restaurant besides the Iceberg. You know the owner of the restaurant, your friends recommend it, the reviews are top-notch. So it’s only logical that the probability of them serving you shit fish is miniscule!”

Oz looked up at Ed. Wearily, steadily. Those icy peepers always studied his smug expression, now ridden with a carrot-colored beard. After a cig drag and a glance at Zsasz (who was apparently playing with his guns like the dangerous manchild he is) Oswald gave off a hopeless, prissy sigh: “Ed - stop. What does ME going to a damned restaurant have to do with my _sons_ taking over my _empire?_ ”

“And a nephew! But that’s not the point. The point _issss-uh!_ They may be strong opponents, but where’s your faith in the people?”

“It’s never _been there in the **first place**. _ ”

“...Yeah fair point, though, do you really think _they_ can sway the masses? Ogilvy’s a notorious criminal known for beheading enemies with a claymore. That’s not a guy I’d want to do business with. Joshua? Joshua’s _dead_. A private investigator you sent to Vlatava, who nearly got caught and saw his body in the Catacombs, told you so. Ethan doesn’t have an _iota_ of any SEMBLANCE of an appeal. Plus, people don’t like the sciency-looking, labcoat-wearing, smiling _dorks_ like him. _Or me, duh-_ and Martin? Why would HE of all people try to take over? He’s too pure for that, and you’ve given him nothing but love!-”  
“Alimonies.”  
“...Yes, alimonies.”  
“...And what of the-”

“Photo of Joshua you saw circulating in certain circles?” Even Nygma had to stop after this mouthful. He loved these kinds of phrases, but his face immediately got serious and to-the-point after the umpteenth quirk of the hour: “It cannot be real. I mean, come on! Look at the guy! You think he’s going to get all swole and bulky like the guy in the pic? While being starved and on the brink of death?”  
“Well…” Oz needed a minute, so Zsasz stepped in with a quiet shuffle. Now the three of them looked at one another with stone-cold faces:

Viktor had that special, extraordinarily-cold stare that could make anyone shiver. Even under the sizzling African sun. Gwendolyn Solust, who was present throughout her villa's decimating, shared this expression with Zsasz.  
“You don’t think straight, Nygma," He said, "- go out often?”  
Ed was visibly fuming. His cheeks flushed up to a bright, tomato-red color the second Viktor said so: “I-uh… You what?! How am I _not_ thinking straight?!”  
“No, look - no offense to you, Riddler, or you, Penguin - both your ideas are alright, but they lack this _umph!_ This _umph!_ ” And so Zsasz cocked his gun out and put a round through the ceiling. Both Oz and Ed, of course, shivered from such a sudden impact.  
“And what is this _umph!_ You’re talking about? A god-damn nuclear warhead?! I have that, too!”  
“Viktor,” Oswald put a palm to Edward’s chest, “Explain yourself.” And so the Riddler’s rumbles halted, ears perked up at the gun-guy's words.

“Alright; If you two are gonna stay here, lazing yourselves away jus' like you have for the past two damn weeks - Lark will be crushed by your kids’ combined forces, and they _will_ unite in hating your guts. Then I will get my paycheck. Then I’ll fly back to Johannesburg, then you will probably be killed. If not worse. Cut the bullshit - not a good idea, Nygma. And if we go back now,” Viktor gave a glance to the curious bird, “We won’t have a force big enough to compete with the amount those guys can put out together, and I _guarantee_ you they'll ally between one another even if they hate one another's guts. Fuck it - let’s assume Joshua’s deader than dead - that still leaves three contenders to y'alls place in Gotham, and these guys are more-than-able to build an army twice as large as ours. So, the same scenario will follow. Here, that’s what I think of all this shit.”

Dead silence settled in between the gathering. Besides the fans working, of course. Nygma and Cobblepot looked one another in the eyes, then turned back to Viktor, miffed and worrisome: “So?” Ed said, “You think you have a better solution for this?” Oz added.

“Nooooot necessarily,” Gwen stepped in while settling by both Oswald and Edward's side, “Zsasz just a guy with a gun, not the voice of reason. However, I’ve been going out of the Solust mansion while you were out cold, and… Mr. Cobblepot - did you know South Africa and Botswana form the biggest diamond region in the world?”  
“Yes I did,” Penguin said condescendingly, “I have an entire _mine_ here, if you forgot.”  
“Yes, all right, okay, but that’s just one of the features. Who rules South Africa’s underbelly? The Numbers Gang. Nobody knows who this local folk is outside of their chicken coop on the world stage if you know what I mean. Other gangs are far apart, killing each other for the smallest disagreements. I endorse it! But because _you_ like to keep things clean…”

Oswald’s brow was raised from this point onwards - he’s already half-getting what both Viktor and Gwen’s said: “So?”  
“So why not take the fuck over?!” The ‘gun guy’ had his gun go off in a direction opposite to the Riddler and the Bird - that’s another broken vase. “Oop- Yeah, right, sorry, I-”  
“It’s fine, it’s fine!” Both of them said, “Go on, you two.”

Lady Solust raised both her arms and gestured for her guests to hush down. She had a map already spread out on a coffee table, with some locations marked out: “Look here, gentlemen - if we take over just Capetown and Stellensbosch, we’ll have enough troops to smash all four, not three of your offspring, Mr. Cobblepot. All Lark has to do is wait and hold out for as long as possible - and she _can_ do that. I know my sister better than others do, no offense - she can and will hold out till then. But! There have been bowel movements in the shitter that's our penitentiary system, aye. Youngins want the oldins to get the hell off their porch, and vice versa. Say, if we help one of those groups take over, and then get them into debt - we'll have an army to import and deal with Ogilvy's business, at least."

Oswald’s gloved palms rubbed against his own lips, whilst his icy peepers rested on Eddie; he waltzed on over to the biggest god-damn fridge he’d seen in a house to grab… Tonic water. How distasteful.

“...What?” Ed turned back with a sour face, “You want my thoughts on all of this? M’ fine, so long as I get to solve my puzzles and razzle-dazzle the kiddy-gangs with my clearly-superior intellect.”  
Cobblepot spoke with notes of both sweet and bitter in his voice, as his portly frame moved over to lean into one of many cushioned armchairs: “Sorry to say, gentlemen - vacation is over. T’was never the _season_ for it, anyway. We need to do some market research, then come in and get our resources multiplied thricefold as swiftly as humanly possible. That is my final decision. Oh, and Gwendolyn - t'is good idea. You’ve got to work on the research part and the governing part whence we have to leave. Ed - I need you to make _the_ most elaborate plans you can - the mansion’s laboratory is yours, so long as Lady Solust allows for it, and she definitely does, right?"

"Right."

"Wonderful. Me, though, hm...”

A single nod to Viktor by Gwen was enough to set him reeling; oh, it was _that_ time of a grueling conversation. Zsasz picked up what Ed knew was _not_ a remote control, and clicked the home button right in the middle of it: The fish tank’s wall dissipated, and turned out to be a mere ultra-realistic screening of such. Instead of the screen itself, there was every, single, weapon, imaginable. Ranging from tiny daggers to at least a dozen RPGs mounted on hooks, to the tools of torment one could only see in the antiquated horror movies, to the massive amounts of gun-brellas Oswald Cobblepot has managed to produce over decades of running his emporium, and Gwendolyn Solust was responsible for most, if not all, of the overseas stashes. All that is now theirs. Oz had the absolute, most smug grin throughout the entire vacation right now; this was his moment. Well, Gwen suggested it, but it was _he_ who gave the orders! Still, he leaned into the armchair and observed as Eddie’s tonic water slipped from his scrawny fingers:

“...Surely you didn’t think my Solust contract was mere babbling on paper, ah? I came prepared for such… Interesting times~”


	8. Die Nommer is Vol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing is more refreshing but a good old massacre! At least for Oswald Cobblepot, Edward Nygma, Victor Zsasz and Co. This chapter describes nothing short of a massacre, in detail, as well as the quickest hostile takeover Oswald had ever performed, all portrayed from the eyes of Linden Vanzeel - a leader of the old blood in the Numbers Gang, who are still the dominant power in the Underworld. Or so they thought!

_@Stellenbosch, SAR:_

Someone snored. Loud. That someone was also a prisoner of the local task force. Transported in cuffs, manacles, mittens and a spit hood, the criminal’s known to be especially violent. More than a dozen well-armed army troops guarded his resting body. Not that this beast was anyone grand or threatening - a frail man, with bruised legs and smooth, dark skin. Interrogations were always a tough job, especially for men like Linden Vanzeel - the most notorious bandit in the Cape’s suburbs. He slept snug as a bug, though the trainees were always on alarm. Especially whenever he emitted one loud snort after the other. There was no reason for him to fear, for he’s being transported with utmost security.

Or so he thinks.

Five vehicles transported this fine gentleman from ‘Stelly’ to ‘Pollsmoor’ - a maximum-security cell awaited him there. As well as a meager existence for a couple more years. Pollsmoor is one big place, full of really bad people with really bad intentions; a perfect training grounds for mobsters like Linden Vanzeel - a Dutch-born drug kingpin whose net worth is in the hundreds of thousands. Serious money for a quiet, mostly-white town. Nobody knew how he got busted. Lots of whispers could be heard while he was asleep, occasionally muffling out the snoring. Suddenly, there came a whistle. It wasn’t from one of the groupmates. Hell, even the street-dwelling bastard managed to look tamer than the cops holding him. Distant screams shattered through the night air, and the quiet, off-shoot neighborhood rucketed with the thunder of war:

Boom.

The front car - a hatchback - was blown to bits. Its burning carcass still hosted the driver, whose wails also rang across the midnight cool. Nobody dared run towards melting metal. The temperature was too high to comprehend - no common explosion could cause such a fire. Entirely unprepared to face such a threat, the entire platoon mobilized and drove themselves out of their vans. Before they knew it, the last vehicle in the column was also blown up. Its carcass shone just as brightly, and so did the direction from which the load came; as expected, this was no common RPG. Some homes by the roadsides were abandoned, so their enemies were everywhere and nowhere. They shot down the lights, too. Everyone got out of their nests, Except for one youngin - he stayed inside, behind bulletproof glass.

The flashlights turned on. Drivers waited for backup. Shocked and dazzled, Vanzeel himself didn't fully understand what's going on. Not like additional light helped understand the situation, either; it only made the task force more visible to the unknown, dangerous force. Hell, even Linden could barely hear anything over the screams of others, as well as shots being constantly fired at anything that moved. All he heard now was the driver’s dialogue:

“-Whaddya _mean_ all sources on board? We got lead **pouring** on us fer fook’s sake, send someone, anyone, I don’t care! Agh- FOOKIN ELL that’s one, two… Three down! Send backup or else our arse is grass!”

A spree of lead went through the impenetrable window, hitting a spare driver in the neck. Blood gushed onto the primary, dribbled into his mouth from the stained face. “How?! How?!” He kept repeating, while the trainee left at the back slowly crawled to Vanzeel, who laid on the floor alongside her. In a rather bold move, the nameless soldier peeked out of the window. The picture before her looked quite grim: There were many that guarded Vanzeel, perhaps too many. Most of them were regular policemen - about a dozen from the task force, well-armed and armored. The rest? They had their uniforms and courage.

Courage, though, didn’t help their gaping wounds. Bullets moved so fast they cut through flesh and bone, leaving one troop on the ground after the other. Screaming, moaning, gagging. This uneven battle not only looked but sounded disgusting. The enemy worked to intimidate the guard. Seems like it worked, and worked well: After at least half fell to the ground with their legs drilled like a sieve, those that rushed out of their vans rushed back in.

Troop realized she’s not dead yet. Her legs broke free from the shock, so she rushed to shut the van’s door off. Knocking and more screaming ensued. The driver, still alive, turned to the trainee and reached for his gun. She's a lot faster - her snub-nosed revolver put a bullet right through the his forehead. Furthermore, the chains and manacles of Vanzeel's were soon shot off. The two of them laid down, listening to the pleas, curses and shouts of her supposed comrades. One after the other, voices disappeared, until silence settled upon the blood-stained asphalt. Even crickets shut up after this massacre. Linden's sleep-deprived eyes, hazel in color, would be moving targets. He shut them down and let his fears flow. Breathing heavily, shakily, the low-end gangster’s tremors intensified more every passing second:

“Who the fook was that?” Linden whispered to his crook.  
“Like I fookin know, chef?!”  
“Someone wit’ big guns, I tell ya that!”  
“Lay still, okay?” Hell, that private even pampered the scrawny bastard, “We’re gonner get out of here as soon as they leave the rest. Then, we run, and we run _fast._ ”  
“Ave ya seen what they did to ‘em?! An’ we dunevenno where these bastards hide!”  
“Shh! They gonner kill us faster if ya won’t shut it now, chef. Erryone’s fookin’ dead or… No. Shit. They’re finishing ‘em off… They’re close.”  
The two exchanged quick, terrified glances, then Vanzeel continued: “If these cunts are dere for me, why kill 'em? They can’t know every person oo’s on payroll, can they? Ohhh shit, **shit-** what did I do? What did I do to upset the fookin’ big fishes innere…”  
“Quiet, chef - I got a plan.”

These words came off the troop cold like sweatdrops of a cocktail glass. Suddenly, she grabbed Linden by the collar and put her Beretta to his temple. Vanzeel quacked, but then got shut down with a harder press to the side of his head. The van’s hatch opened, and the two of them stepped out into the darkness: Even in such pitch-black environment, corpses were visible, piled up alongside one another. Two headshots for each troop - there was no mercy from this swarm of lead, which seems to have fled after a successful raid. “Whoever fookin’ shoots,” the nameless soldier barked, “I’m fookin’ killin’ ya target. Let us pass through, and I’ll leave the bastard at yer feet!” Both of them had to take a deep breath, as their steps were synchronized when they finally stepped out of the van.

The smell of gunpowder and rot was everywhere. Linden and the lady struggled to keep their mouths shut - the nauseating stench of burnt flesh nearly made the latter barf right onto maimed bodies. It was a massacre. And, to Vanzeel’s greatest surprise, there was no backup. In any other case, the entire SAPS would be here after such a catastrophe! But they’re just not here. Hell, even in Stellenbosch, which wasn’t too far away, there were no visible sirens. Slowly, shakily, the cop and the robber progressed through piles of their former allies. Beretta still in hand, the nameless soldier’s darkened eyes flickered ‘round the homes and farmland that surrounded them.

This nothing proved to be the greatest threat. Since the crickets sang their petty songs again, both moved forward at a much calmer pace. As long as the bulky road moved, there were bodies. Everywhere. Someone had to pay for this, but nobody knew who - even the higher-ups. There’s a single light in the distance, and a phone booth beneath it. Such a blessing looked like a mirage at first, but in midnight cold? How could it be? Weapon firmly held by her gruff hand, the troop shoved Linden further, and the two of them rushed towards it, stumbling and hasting up with every passing step. A grave mistake; A single strand of bullets, bright and orange in the late evening, passed by. The troop’s calves, body, neck, arms - everything got hit. Vanzeel cursed - he had no wish to leave his only friend alone, and yet he jumped into the ditch.

Another, single shot, rang through the midnight air once more - the last cop was down. Crawling through a cornfield by the road’s side, the low-end gangster huffed and panted, digging himself through the mud and trying his very best to remain unseen. His eyes were put down, as he could only see his bleeding palms and dirty uniform, as well as the ground itself. He crawled, and crawled, for countless hours. Dawn approached by the time he took a break. Exhausted and barely-living, Vanzeel’s eyes blinked, and his attention was focused on… A pair of boots. Clean, stainless, the type that only his higher-ups could afford. He didn’t dare look up, and, with his last breath - he rolled his eyes and fell limp. 

***

The lieutenant’s head got woozy. A bag over his head was a nuisance. Thankfully, it flew off his head soon after. The light was so bright it nearly burnt Vanzeel’s eyes the moment he opened them, cringing and spewing throughout his wake-up call. There were many things the gangster discovered: Bound by wrists & ankles, his knees and face hurt from laying on a hot, rough piece of plywood. Six more bodies rested on that plywood right next to him. Sounds of the sea rumbling and… Quacking, filled his mind; penguins. Lots of penguins surrounded the captives. They rested on a cliff, rather low and secluded from any kind of eyesight. It was early morning, since the sun wasn’t nearly as bright and scorching as it is during the day. And the colors were beautiful. Red, orange, blue, and purple mixed together to create a wonderful palette! Though, for an unsettling image:

Three men and one woman sat under a dark umbrella's shadow. The lady looked rather gallant in her beige dress. So clean and tidy, with a glass of white wine smoothing her boyish features out. One man’s slender, lanky, quite tall. Lots of green on him, too. And... He's texting someone during a fucking execution? The fuck?! Oh, right - there's another man, who’s the executioner; Looks fairly young, and he’s got so many scars... Plenty of these fresh. Dressed in all-black, that albino-looking _thing_ made Linden shiver. The fellow at the front looked most grim, though; quite portly, with short, stubby legs and equally-short arms. A bland shirt on him was drenched in blood, head-to-toe. What was once white linen now became cinnabar. Pants ripped, bowtie undone. This exact _stare_ he gave to Vanzeel made him realize it's over. Hands, although small and round, wore stained parade gloves. They also bore both a Colt and a spare umbrella. The monocle suited him well, and his pale, porcelain-colored skin made him look like one of the mine owners up the country. That’s all Linden could notice, since his mind was… Elsewhere. Praying for his dear life. Thinking of what could’ve made the government upset with _him_ now.

Oswald Cobblepot studied the photographs of his captives. Viktor Zsasz threw the bags off their heads, one by one. Edward Nygma checked their identities in the same order. Vanzeel recognized all these people - of native origin, Boer, English - anyone could join the Numbers Gang. Though, not all Numbers were in priority. He's a Twenty-Six, which means he’s as low-end in the hierarchy as it gets. The rest were Twenty-Eights - the ‘warriors’, the ‘men’, the old blood of the gang. How _he_ ended up in this gathering of Capetown’s worst, is heavily under question. Hey, at least he could kneel on his two legs. Some couldn't do that, even. And the penguins’ honking only got louder when a couple of higher-ups kicked back at them. The birds nibbled and tormented them in response. None were silent except for Linden, who hunched down in his own little corner and continued praying.

Two Numbers rose from their seats, umbrella in Oswald’s hand, and sauntered over to exchange closer looks. Vanzeel saw how bruised and bloodied Cobblepot’s skin was - he must’ve been on the raid’s frontlines.  
“So? Is that all?” Oz muttered through thickened, luscious lips.  
Ed snapped a photograph of each captive with a bright flash. Some cursed out in their native tongues, others were silent, and people like Linden paid no mind to it, even as his face was lifted by the mudded dark hair. “Yup,” he said, “Allllllll the Number-Ones we could find. Hard work’s paying off, right?”

“Right,” Oswald said, “So, who of all these sputtering fools is the General?”  
“That one!” Vanzeel suddenly blurted out, “The one in the green, not orange!”  
Zsasz smacked him at the back of the neck, and the Dutchman fell to the ground again: “Appreciated. Although, not necessary.” _BLAM._ The first shot went through, much to the further insults in Afrikaans and broken English being thrown at Oswald and Edward. Though, the notorious Penguin’s voice still seemed louder than those fools’ as he spoke eloquently, masterfully:

“Numbers. Brothers in arms, smugglers, rapists. You, gentlemen, shall no longer exist, there will be no memory of you in the new generation, and your goods are now forfeit.” _BLAM._ “Therefore, I think you need an explanation why; my name is Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot. I am the Penguin of Gotham City. My lands are being unrightfully claimed, therefore I am forced to stay here. With you, scum of the Earth…” _BLAM._ Zsasz simply did not stop, as brains and blood splattered further and further onto the old bird. Sun got hotter and hotter with every shot fired. Anxiety rushed through every victim of the Penguin's slaughter. Right on the cliff, Oswald continued his tirade: “...You are a problem. Not just to South Africa, but yourselves. Your strict hierarchy has led to the demise of crime in the Cape.” _BLAM._ “Whitecollar crime. I’ve come to these distant lands for rest and repose, and yet now I’m here to change the _pecking order._ ” _BLAM._ “Your goods are to be forfeited, your names - to be forgotten, your brotherhood - to be destroyed by the people you forced into the lowest of the low. They will take your spots. Your pathetic, bickering offspring will rot, for the Numbers to achieve newfound glory. Under **my** command. In the Cape, Joburg, Praetoria…” _BLAM._ “...And in Gotham City.”

It was Linden’s turn. Shit, shit, shit… He hasn’t finished his prayer. A scream came from his soul: “Wait! Wait! Lemme say something, Herr Kappelput! I know something you don’t!”  
“And what might this be, Herr Maballbaan?” Oswald thoroughly studied the Numbers' structure before this hateful occurrence. ‘Maballbaan’ means ‘clerk’. That's the rank Vanzeel was given not long ago. “I know you worked in Codburgh. I know of your Dutch descent, too. The way you traffic drugs into the Netherlands. For so cheap, too - that deserves some respect! Oh, and about your petty nightclub somewhere up north.”  
“No, no,” the captive said, “What you don’t know, is that your precious nephew is... Is alive. He's heard all your shit-talking about us. He knows where you are, when you go to bed, to the fookin’ bathroom, how you sleep with your fookin’ queryfaggot and the rest of your dirt, Herr Kappelput. The Numbas won’t die. We lived in these lands for hundreds o' years. Hell, I skinned pigs while you was in a pram, boye. What's in it for you? Money, of course iss money. Family. Fuck 'em an' all yar bullshit pride, yar head’s gon’ crack like a fookin’ coconut when Joshua comes for y- GHKK!!!”

Now Oswald had Linden in a chokehold, staring at his fearless face, holding his neck as firmly as he could. Oz listened to the sounds of his choking, then leaned right into the youngin’s ear. His lips nearly touched its tender flesh as he muttered in a sultry tone: “You're a feisty one, are you not? Well, the good thing for _you_ is that I _need_ you. See this fine gal over there?" Oswald's eye trailed off to Gwen, who observed the killings from a safe distance. Vanzeel nodded, still gasping and trying to undo his binds. Oh, and yes - Cobblepot did let go, continuing: "Lady Solust wants Twenty-Six to run the Numbers. And, since Lady Solust is my trusted subordinate, and she, unlike myself, does mind dirty jobs - you'll do it for her. If you refuse, all of _your_ brothers go down, too."

"Aw nay, nay-nay- Mister Kappelputt, Joshua-"

"He's in Gotham City, you're in Stellensbosch. Your net's cut down. You have no way out, Vanzeel. Join me or fucking _die,_ there's no third option."

"Fookin' ell mate!-"

"Zsasz!"

"Alrite, alrite, fine!" Vanzeel shook his head and turned away to gag some bile out onto the ground. He really didn't look good, at this point: "I'll help Solust, you get t'fuck out. Iss our business an' ours only. When y'need help, we'll be dere... I guess."

"It's settled, then!" Oswald seemed to be more happy by this point, but rather woozy. Nygma finished the job by knocking Linden out with his riddle-stick. The Numbers' new leader laid in a pile of his own vomit for Cobblepot's goons to scoop up from the ground. Not that the rest of them didn't look just as filthy after a night of good old _mass murder._ Except for Gwen, of course - she looked so pristine, in fact, it's almost surreal seeing her on this idyllic rock. Oz asked for a cigarette - she gave him a thick one, and Edward lit it up. With the rest of the old blood left to birds and waves to swallow up, Penguin slowly walked alongside Riddler, the elated Zsasz, and the cleanly Lady Solust, back to his transport. "So," Ed asked, "What now, Oz?"

"For now? _Hweh,_ we rest! Shit, Eddie, I should have toned down on those Margaritas last night... Anyway! Rest. Hmh, hmhmh, _but seriously - great job, you three._ "


	9. The Day Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Numbers massacre, lots of questions arise before both the Penguin and the Riddler. They, of course, won't take a single day to answer, as Oswald needs to have some time off his line of duty. This, in turn, leaves Edward even more unfazed and puzzled with the challenge at hand, but it is quickly forgotten once the two of them truly spend time in an intimate setting for the last time in their tumultuous trip.

_@Capetown, SAR:_

Oswald walked through the empty hallway as fast as he could. They're home - finally home. Cold lights flickered right into his eyes. A tear of blood streamed right from his damaged eye. He had no time for his umbrella, or the monocle. Hell - dress was the least important issue right now. He’s bleeding, badly, and his stomach hurts so bad he's about to barf his own intestines out. Head spinning, legs twisted, Cobblepot rushed to the bathroom and, after dropping down to his sick knees, Oz almost hit the toilet rim from suddenly going limp. Edward was there to help him up, thankfully. He let himself go:

The old bird scrunched up, turning himself into a little ball. His chin put onto the rim, Oz spilled his guts out. He barfed and barfed, and then he barfed more. All while Eddie watched. Eager to help his partner, but stopped by the ratchet heartbeat he himself endured all the while. Or, perhaps, too amused with the noises & suffering of Oswald's. Eventually, the Riddler sat right next to the Penguin, carefully patting his back. Not just for affection, but to show remote signs of his presence. Both Rogues looked battered and brutally-beaten, though it’s not their wounds they're carrying on their shoulders; it’s half of Capetown’s entire police force. Ozzy’s snot, drool and tears cleaned dried blood off his own face. Crying and choking involuntarily rocked Oz about, akin to a clumsy ship on stormy weather. But, the Cold Logician is always there to support him.

Seems like the Riddler has gone soft and tidy for a mere covert affair.

“Eddie, oh, Eddie…” Oswald wailed, bumping his nose right into Edward’s shoulder, “We just… W-We did it, didn’t we?”  
Eddie himself barely held back a scream when Oz pushed his knee into the broken ankle. But his grimace made the discomfort clear enough: “...Mmf! Did what, Ozzy? Got rid of all our competition?”  
“Yes. Precisely. We killed… How many?”  
“One hundred and eighty-seven total,” Nygma said, “Not a huge loss if you ask me. Well… In comparison to what you and I did, it isn’t much.”  
“I know, Edward Nygma. I know.”

“So what are you crying for, old friend?”  
“Ed…” Oswald looked him in the eye with a soft stare, “...Look at me. I _know_ we won’t get anything for this. I _know_ we just got away with a god-damn massacre… But there was so much _death_ in there! And I know, I know - it wasn't a problem before, but... _Wagh,_ I'm scared my sickness won't go away! And that I'll die a slow and painful and horrible death, which... Would be carmic, considering how my _own_ father died. But still, I want nothing of the sort! And I'm frightened.”

This wasn’t just a breakdown - it was a show of weakness. Something Oswald isn’t used to displaying. It’s not like he distrusted everyone, but… He did. He’s the Penguin, here’s the Riddler, somehow not puking all over his back as he crawls into his embrace. Sometimes, he just had to be soft. Anyone had to be. A grin soon appeared on his bloodied face; he's achieved the goal put out for a month in a single night’s notice. With help, of course. And, while Gwen and Vanzeel discussed strategy with Zsasz, Oz took his time lashing out his anxieties to someone a fair bit more emotionally-stunned than he himself was.

The two of them simply held one another in a tight embrace. They’ve finally passed through this fever dream. They’ve destroyed so many livelihoods it almost felt apocalyptic in nature. They, along with Zsasz and Solust, were its Four Horsemen. Judgment day has come for the Numbers. With their entire leadership decimated, there was no other power to contest Penguin and Riddler's reach within the country. Oswald Cobblepot was King again, but a King in a land still quite foreign and hostile to him;

Gwen Solust is now Queen of the Cape, under Oswald Cobblepot's control.

Now Oz was in front of a hard decision. He knew nothing of South African customs, values, even how the Underbelly works in here. Should he stay King of the Cape, or should he transfer this title to Gwendolyn, making HER the rightful ruler of her homeland? There was a weird gut feeling about this whole endeavor… Must have been the aftershock of his thunder-barfing. Maybe it just wasn’t the time yet. Edward saw how overwhelmed Cobblepot has gotten. Now, **he** could withstand such a brainstorm, but Ozzy? Killing people outside of his fits of rage was a tough job. Bastard thinks with his heart, not mind. Somehow, that’s a trait Nygma loved in his partner the most. Though, occasionally - it became a touchy subject. This WOULD be awkward, yes, and this WOULD be unpleasant. If not for a fact that Ed was a massive dork, and Oz would forgive him if he said something dumb.

“Hmm… Large as a mountain, small as a pea - an essential liquid in you and me. What am I, Oswald?”  
“It’s water, Eddie, you’ve- You’ve told me before.”  
“Bingo! How about taking a shower, mm? Seems like we both need it.”  
“We’ve got to clean the floor up, too,” Oz snapped out of his stupor, “Otherwise Gwendolyn will be upset. I want her to be the happiest she’s ever been at this moment. You are… A genius, though. Shall we?”  
“Yup!” Ed quickly tore his shirt off with a loud _krrrrip!_ Eh, it's gonna be discarded anyway. Nygma tossed the rest of his damaged garb to the bathroom's opposite corner. “Go ahead, Oz!" he said, "Or, d’you want me to babysit you again? Because I WILL do that if you’ll answer more of my riddle~”

“Stuff it, Ed,” The ole’ bird blurbed, “I’m not THAT rusty! OR dusty.” Despite the rude gesture, Oz said it surprisingly-lovingly. He, too, undressed rather quickly. Not like his tarnished garbs required much effort to tear off. There was a stark contrast between the Rogues; Edward, throughout his presence down south, got thoroughly-tanned and therefore had a very lively color to his otherwise pale skin. Oswald, well… He's pale like an oversized ghost. Even the strong, luscious coating of blood didn’t help. Ozzy's fear of the sun, as well as a keen adoration towards all kinds of umbrellas, makes his vitamin D deficiency all the more eloquent.

Cobblepot was used to the cold, so these first fifteen seconds of water heating up weren’t something shocking to his hide, which was still covered in goosebumps once the shower finally stopped being a mean bitch. “Come,” he called, “Step inside, Nygma. I probably won’t bite you… Probably.” The Riddler, infamous for his snark, kept quiet. His body's still covered with the juices of many men that lost their lives to his devious schemes. The Cold Logician and the Fine-Feathered Fowl got really, really close, sharing the warmth between one another. Oz, as a matter of fact, turned his back on Nygma, who hungrily studied his shapely figure with curious peeping: As Oswald’s fingers started brushing through his raven-black hair, water streamed onto Edward, too. Riddle-man's gone down the really soft route, hugging around his big, round bird all of a sudden. Much like a curious ginger cat snuggles with its costly, captured prey.

But, to the Riddler’s surprise, the Penguin’s black was getting replaced with another color - a more copper, light-brown sort of color. Cobblepot's make-up also drooped down, hot stream of water trickling down his long, curled nose. Ed’s fingers, on the other hand, nursed the nasty bruises: In contrast to the heat, his fingertips were ice-cold. Though, they did get warmer upon impact. With every little touch to a darkened spot, Cobblepot either honked or groaned out. In pain at first, in utter bliss later. Penguin’s shudders and wing-flaps only proved Eddie’s theory; there was a pile of pillows behind the iron curtain. Now up REALLY close, the Riddler pressed his groin up against his partner’s hip and ground his palms into his back. A couple of pops and ear-wrenching gawks were squeezed out of Oswald. Ed’s seen him like this on numerous occasions, but this felt _very_ special.

Nygma comforted his wounds unlike anyone could, since Ed treated Oz akin to a real medic. The brain and the heart mixed together under a hot spring, dribbling from a showerhead in a bathroom deep below the surface. Nobody could see them. It felt so intimate. So powerful. So wonderful, and yet so… Lost. Next, those fingers moved to caress Ozzy’s scalp, and, as the paint washed off - there was more and more of this ginger color. Even Penguin's pains were a thing of the past! Somehow, Edward Nygma was fascinated, with both his hair and the minute details of his tiny cuts. As well as his big, purple bruises.

Another brush against his back caused Oswald to turn around, then stare at Edward with both anger and discomfort. Though, it slowly melted away into overall distress and restlessness. Then, these emotions trickled down into a weird mix of joy and sadness, written on his face in giant letters. But what of Eddie? He continued smiling, well-aware that it is just a phase. His hands squeezed around the portly partner’s torso & thighs, then held him up close to his well-built chest. Through the sounds of a comforting waterfall running down their torsos, the Smartest Man in Gotham muttered next to the Penguin’s ear:

“Looks like the big bad bird has finally shown his true plumage... Again~”

***

Contrasting. One could definitely call a fine afternoon in Capetown that. With the mountains and the sea to cover it up, the Solust residence was one of the most remote places one could find. A beach of sand mixed with polished pebbles had pines for tents and kelp for daybeds. It being a popular nestling for Oswald’s favorite birds - the African penguins - leads to plenty of quacking, litter and an occasional uninvited guest right on the stomach. Ruffling of the waves against larger rocks, as well as the gentle bristling of the leaves above, muffled the bird noises out. Tranquility settled on the wild beach. Makeshift umbrellas of hardy wood covered up the only two men on this beach. The afternoon heat, though, was not that noticeable, thanks to the breeze that blew from the gentle, rattling waves. Sunbeams appeared as quickly as they were gone with the seaquakes. Little beams of light glistened in the moistened rocks of a place so distant, yet so full of life.

Penguin’s limbs were sprawled out. The shortstack took up almost the entire vicinity of a pine’s shadow. There were one, two… Three penguins resting directly on his round gut. A palm moved to pet this triad of honking fellows, whilst the other rested on a chilled cocktail glass. Its contents were emptied long before Oswald’s precious babies chose him as their bed. To see Cobblepot this happy was like a firm punch of vodka and peach liqueur for Edward; that’s exactly what his drink entails. Like some puny lightweight, Nygma sipped on it for hours ever since they’ve come here. Wait - how DID they come here? Oh right, there’s a beautiful path that leads through a grove of pine trees both of them rested beneath. Riddler’s glasses got steamy from the contrast of hot and cold, his hot breath and cool air from his glass mixing in. Lips always locked on it, a glance at Ozzy left his smirk almost-visible to the half-slumbering birdman.

Edward closed his eyes, and let nature’s sounds stream over his mind. Everything bothersome suddenly vanished. A strange situation, indeed; on one hand, both he and Oswald finally felt calm, but on the other - there was still so much to do. To see. To conquer! And yet they’re here, meditating into obscurity. He heard distant twangs of the sitar, but all it was is a distant memory of his log cabin in Goa. As cream glistened across his palms, Ed’s had enough of the heat and went off to cool himself down: A single dash towards the sea would be enough. But, Nygma had to be careful with all the birds stacked around their Birdfather. Plus, the drink’s already had the better of his balance; what was supposed to be a straight line turned into a funny combo of zigzags and stumbles, up until the Riddler finally plopped into the sea's embrace.

A sudden steep drop a couple of meters below left Edward puzzled at first. But, the second his eyes opened up and looked down - that drop didn’t look so scary. As kelp caressed the very bottoms of his soles, at least a dozen penguins joined him for a swim. They circled around his slender. Quite like showhorses on a carousel. Others also brushed up against his palms, their feeble necks put right into them! These birds were so blissfully-unaware of human nature! Now Nygma understood Cobblepot’s love for them; so cuddly. Soft. Alien to Edward's imagination, in a way. Until a much grander force suddenly swept around him and glided across the ocean floor:

Oz finally joined him. Long strands of ginger hair covered his face once the ole’ bird jumped out of water, holding the Logician by his waist. Nygma, however, was keen on diving down, himself; using the water’s properties, he gained plenty of speed, jumped out, and spit water out of his mouth, akin to a whale’s fountain. Little crystalline bits sparkled on the yellow pancake of a sun, then hit the fowlman and his riddle-man’s skins with a loud arrangement of taps.

The Bird and the Logician held one another in their arms. Their legs, also intertwined, wiggled against the cool veil of salty water. While Oswald quacked like his smaller brethren, Edward continued acting like a dolphin. This fowl play gave the sun more room to play around with its hot rays. Prone to bouts of emotionlessness, Nygma… Felt alive, to the contrary of his usual state. He laughed and cajoled around his bird. Liveliness made a strange feeling in the gut grow stronger. Was HE growing weak, of all people? Somebody whose mind and wisdom cannot be fathomed? Concerns returned to Edward's mind. He thought of Oswald's offspring; Ignatius, Ethan, Martin. Most often - Joshua. His sole existence was a mystery meant for Detective Nygma! All thoughts of that kind soon dissipated. Only quacking and ruffling remained.

Time flew. Sun turned from yellow to orange, then from orange to red, in the span of minutes. Though, they've been resting at bay for a couple hours already. Still, it was hard to stare at the sky until most of the sun's crimson disk vanished beneath the horizon. That’s their last day of vacation. Perhaps well-deserved, perhaps a bit too reckless - even the great Riddler can’t predict its eventual outcome. Were they well-rested, though? Kind of. Gwendolyn, the poor sod, has to take responsibility for all that mess, only to keep their gruesome secrets for the rest of her life. Was she trustworthy? That, too, is under question.

Nobody can be trusted in this day and age, as Vanzeel - Rockhopper’s sleeping cell - has shown the Logician. And the people they’ve obtained? Would they be loyal, too? Would a simple body count be enough to counter the efforts of his sons? Too many questions at hand, and yet Edward felt the cool wash over them. Even if his predictions are incorrect, he’s spending the last days of his life with a person he’s loved for decades.

“I am a daydream that never ends, a boomerang that always hits in the head, and a blast that makes others deaf thereafter. What am I?” Edward said as he turned to Cobblepot, who slept on the rocks again.  
“Hunh?” Oz lifted his head, then sat up on the old pine’s root: “Oh, I’ve no idea, Edward. Never heard this one before…”  
And Ed grinned, nice and wide, then had the audacity to plant himself right next to the grand bird: “It’s nostalgia, old friend. For all day long I remembered our time together… As well as how nobody noticed.”  
“Hm!” Cobblepot stifled a low, rumbling chortle, “Nostalgia… To be fair, I feel the same about you, old friend. Do tell, though - what did you remember?”  
“Oh, it’s just- It’s not the best memory in the world, ‘cause I like memorizing these weird situations, but I suddenly had the image of us at the docks again. It happened _twenty-two years_ ago, and I just… Thought of how we progressed. Together.”  
The Fine-feathered Fowl had to give his Logician a squint, as well as a smug grin in return, to emanate smugness together in a moment just as intimate as their ‘parting’ at the Docks: “Twenty-two years, and you haven’t changed the slight bit.”

“ _Hmh._ I guess you’re right. But what’s there to change? I’m already perfect~”  
“I never said you were not. Though you’ve never learnt to shut up, have you?”  
“Oh - neither have you, Oswald. But we both know the ways of doing so.”  
“Ah, stop it! Tell me, what will we do when we come back tomorrow? Will Gwen manage with the parts we’re leaving her with?”  
“You’re asking _me_ for advice with your own people?”  
“Yes?!”  
“Well… For once, I’m going to say that… I’m not sure. I can never be sure anymore.”  
“And neither can I. But, so long as we’re together…”  
“...We’re bigger, stronger, better. Damn right, Mr. Lovey-Dovey Pebble-Kettle!”  
“ _BHAAAH-_ Oh, shut _up_ for once!”

The bird-themed shortstack now rested up against his older counterpart's chest. Much to his surprise and high-pitched quacking, the Riddler took it as an advantage and twisted his legs to wrap around his partner's large waist. Edward bent Oswald over, and... They hushed and cackled until the sun disappeared entirely, marking the questionable end in their journey to the Cape of Diamonds.


	10. Rockhopper's Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is what the title says - Joshua Cobblepot comes into play with the little amount of assets he has! And his first two victims happen to be Emperor Penguin's lieutenants. The chase and extortion is seen from their point of view, as both Thumb and Tack end up late in Gotham City's more detestable region - the Narrows.

_@The Narrows, Gotham City:_

Thumb and Tack trudged alongside a stained, wet path. Both their feet smacked against cold, hard asphalt and the puddles it sometimes held. This experience was just like putting a leg into a bowl of cold soup; water stuck to the skin, and so did grease. Bits of junk stuck in the boot like spare veggies. A disgusting sight, really. But the Twins needed to get out of here before cops sniff their oil-stained selves out. Granted, they didn’t know what ‘here’ was just yet. No wonder - street lights are off in most of this hood. Windows barred off, too. Those that are not are smashed to absolute bits. 

Nothing looked habitable in this part of Gotham. Fresh motor oil & rubbish said otherwise. What was there even to run for? Askold and Andrew Wilensky didn’t know, either. One fact rubbed them the wrong way, though: The Base was very, very far from here. Gotham’s skyline is beautiful from here, and yet it shows the contrast between its North & South isles. Another thing that’s gotten clear is that they’re in the Narrows, after both saw a graffiti on a water tower. So many of them were antiquated. One couldn’t imagine how people drank water here. Must be dirtier than puddles! Nursed in care of their ‘king’, Thumb & Tack never knew what it’s like to be ‘out there’, in the olden days. Back when things were so much better. 

Back when things were a lot more simple. 

Threats, racketeering, extortion. Shaking money up from the Narrows’ residents was just as simple. Sure, it earnt an odd look or two, but who would _dare_ step up against two grown men with guns, connections and no faces? Back in the day, going against the Don would be suicide. Either of them, in fact. But for now, Oswald Cobblepot’s the Don, not Ignatius Ogilvy. Although, the latter carried himself as such. He’s trained his men well, although his reckless spendings & constant abuse turned loyal men into loyal dogs. Under covers of blissful anonymity, a man’s humanity becomes a set of guidelines, not rules. The Narrows were used to all kinds of atrocities. Two goons with guns are child’s play for them. 

Askold carried a heavy-looking suitcase. Andrew carried a pouch, so obviously stacked with weapons it appears they aren’t afraid of capture. Well, they shouldn’t be; a cop can only exit this melting pot alive if he’s nude, beaten and laden with trash. But now, cops weren’t the Twins’ concern: The cash they stole belonged to someone else, and that monster’s thousand eyes stared into theirs from every corner. 

Despite being fair equals, Wilenskies were quite different in terms of character. Askold is the ‘brawn’ of their tandem. Thus, his brash, uncaring attitude is what drives him forward. As well as his muscle, built better than his brother’s: Andrew, being the ‘brains’, always preferred guns & shanks to bare fists. As well as more or less… Strategic approaches to their business. The Twins always were errand-boys, as far back as they could remember. Surprisingly enough, none wanted to go up, either. Was it the fear of responsibility or death in near sight? It was hard to determine. Askold, though, adored making fun of Andrew for being such a pansy in his eyes. He even did it as they jogged through Burnley’s most dangerous streets: 

“For fuck’s sake, Andrey!” He said, “Always playing wit’ cher toys... We’d be outta here if you left this shit behind!”   
“We’d be outta here if… You didn’t lose the way!” Andrew added angrily, “How much is it till we hit Sprang Bridge an’ bust?”   
“Shoulda been two blocks, wait… Wait, stop! **Stop!!!** ” 

Your bullet doesn’t whistle, or so this saying goes. Askold saw five flashes of light, but only four ricochets. The fifth barely scratched his cheek. If Andrew took a step forward, it’d pierce his cartilage, and their return would be much more troubled than it is already. Warm, viscous blood rushed from the open wound, and then stopped. Lead’s quite hot when it flies right past you. The fifth ricochet happened later, when the Twins had already fallen behind a brick wall. Buildings around them were just as dilapidated. Piles of rubbish surrounded the cashed-up henchmen. With a possible sniper at hand, their first field trip can become their last. 

“What the FUCK was that?!”   
“A streak,” Andrew whispered, tending to his brother’s wound. “A streak of bullets, naturally. Probably an AR-15, they’re popular here. These schlimazels can’t afford such shit, though.”   
“A contractor?” Askold moved his face around. Blood squirted from his wound right onto Tack’s face. “Who’d hire a contractor just to fuck around wit’ Bawss? Don’t be such an amoretz, eh?! T’is the last thing we need.”   
“Nobody should have this amount of influence here. The Narrows are scattered, divided, reduced to every last corner. Look, it must be some kinda crazy again, we’ll shoot ‘im and we’ll get our cut… IF we act smart.”   
“What IS smart? Go an’ run like hens on a minefield?!” Guns didn’t seem like a bad idea now. Especially to Thumb, whose panicking only drove Tack jumpier. 

Andy isn’t having any of this. Hence, the bag’s zipper flew right off. A duffel bag full of MPs and a whole M249 turned into a blessing to the two stranded goons. Thumb took the machine gun, whilst two SMGs made their way into Andrew’s hands.   
“Why the fuck not, right?” Tack said, “Not like we’re gonna get busted.”   
“You’re supposed to be the smart one… How are we gonna get out UNnoticed if we’ll carry?!”   
“We won’t,” Andrew added with a face of glee. With mags finally in the firearms, they’re ready to face off against… Darkness. Nothing but vague silhouettes visible. Mostly thanks to the bright, lush skyscrapers from down south. “...Where did the shoots come from?” 

“Like I know!” Askold said angrily, “Nobody here’s a civvie, anyway. We could blast the whole place if we wanted to. For all I care. I just want my cut and out of business, man, I-”   
“Understand. Let’s discuss this _after_ we get t’fuck outta here.”   
Thumb’s grief finally dissipated, as anxiety kicked in, instead. Legs jumpy, sweat covering his forehead, Ogilvy’s henchmen prepared to make a daring run across two blocks straight. Down to the main road, where light would be present. Light meant safety, especially in the Narrows. Light’s also a luxury. Both Twins got to feel how much it was first-hand, tonight. After a couple of deep breaths, Thumb and Tack held it and pushed themselves up from the ground: 

No wall or window was spared by the rain of lead. As quickly as they were, Wilensky brothers made their way through the long stretch of a road unharmed. Their satchels’ weight didn’t stop them, either - gunfire from multiple openings did. Unlike the guns they bore from local street gangs, some opponents had silencers. Those that were visible immediately stopped firing, pelted by non-stop rucketing of Askold’s gun. With the ambush way past them, laughter and wheezing melded into one sound among the Wilenskies. No coherent words came out of their mouths, for they could not believe this brash plan worked!   
“Well, that was easy.”   
“Too easy,” Askold grumped.   
“Whatever, we got a signal! I’m callin’ Bawss, let’s move!” 

Indeed, there’s the lousy one bar Andrew looked for for all these hours. Perhaps they shouldn’t have stayed up there this late. Perhaps - but they had so much more than they were asked to get! Mr. Ogilvy’s going to be quite grateful. Certainty of success was only lifted up further by bright, orange lights lacing their blankly-dressed figures. At long last, it was North island’s shore, where their getaway vehicle’s supposed to be. It was ditched in the middle of the street. Nothing surprising. Especially at four in the morning. Stumbling and falling over, the Twins made it to the two front seats. Shortness of breath was a real bitch under current circumstances - Tack really should quit smoking. But, here he goes - lighting another and dumping the ashtray out of his window. Gas pedal was pressed SO tightly in this old Volvo Askold heard hissing coming from the front. Must’ve been the brakes. The whirring of its engine soon muffled them out, anyway. The Twins didn’t speak. They’re too busy counting stacks and bullets they’ve wasted. Though, in the front mirror, Tack saw something truly terrifying: A pair of round, bright-red eyes staring from the back seat. 

Thumb got knocked out by a single punch to Adam's apple. Coughing and choking, he was of no use in combat. Turns out the masked stalker had an acquaintance, who draped a plastic bag over Askold’s head. The brute in red lenses did just that, too. Hazy and gasping, Andrew didn’t know whether to steer the wheel or fight the bastard! But that matter was handled by his enemy; the car turned back to the Narrows. To the darkness that awaited them. Lungs burning, Tack made a last-resort attempt to shoot at the back seat with a magnum. Though, his hand was quickly stopped by a lankier, stronger palm. Constant, ominous beeping sealed the Twins’ fate: After the Wilenskies finally passed out, the car tossed itself into a ditch. It landed right next to a barge, not a large one, and tumbled exactly one loop over. 

“WOOH!!!” That ‘wooh’ sounded quite shrill. It came from the red-lensed freak’s accomplice:   
“DUDE. JOSHY. That wasch aweschome!”   
“Quiet,” he said, “Or the shootin’ bastards are gonna see us.”   
“Aw come awn!” The March Hare crossed his legs. His arms were busy, however - trussing both Thumb and Tack up. “Nobody knowsch who we are. We’re juscht another buncha idiotsch who ended up in a bad part a’ town. We got an alibi! There’sch lotscha crazhy people here!”   
“I SAID SHHH!!!” Cobblepot finally snapped. Spittle covered Theodor’s cheek from his hissing. The Hare himself, though, leaned back, finishing the job just as swiftly. Joshua was **not** amused. Despite the quick cash-grab and a hefty weapons cache. The Twins weren’t dead, no - they slept like two babes in two monsters’ grasps.   
“Schh-Schh! You alwaysch ‘schh’ at me an’ never let me do schtuff…”

“I gave you bigger meat - ain’t that enough?!”  
“No!” 

“Well god FFFUCKING dammit, Fyodor!” Akin to a temper-tantrum-ridden child, Joshua smashed the car window with his weapon of choice - the construction hammer. Bloodied by other denizens’ juices, it shattered this windshield in an instant. “Fucking Volvos and their stupid fucking-”   
“Well arentcha raging about schtupid schit, yourschelf?~” Fyodor chirped with an eloquent grin. Much to the Rockhopper’s fuming.   
“Shut up shut up SHUT UP!” The Penguinling’s brass knuckles smashed against the wheel, “I’m thinking! Smug bitch,” he grumbled. Sokoloff took his hammer, then gently put it onto his lap and cleaned it up with a silken kerchief. 

“Yer right. But cha love me for it. Muscht be yer schilly nervesch… Plusch, we gotta have fun - we got bank! We got Ogilvy’sch men! Schurely he’ll pay usch back with schome more cash at bank, mm?”   
“No,” Josh refused, casually sharpening his blade, “We take them in. We find a base. We make an example of them. We make an example of _every single milksop_ in this hood.”   
“Scho, um… They’re one of many?”   
A killer’s look can be hidden by many barriers. Namely, the lenses of crimson, which shone so brightly in an empty, orange-laden street. For once, Josh kept his temper cool. And utterly, disgustingly-unsettling: 

“Yes. They’re one of many, **many** scumbags we’ll have to skin, Fyodor. I will teach my siblings the true meaning of suffering. Most importantly, though - when I get my hands on Uncle, ohh… YOU will have plenty of fun, too~”


	11. Housewarming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In spite of the Iceberg's popularity, Emperor Penguin decides to open a club of his own! On a whim, in a single week's notice. Although the Empyrean has quite the successful opening, two other events happen on the side: Martin Vickers, the youngest of Oswald Cobblepot's descendants, comes to Iggy with a proposal and the two of them form some semblance of an alliance. However, both Thumb and Tack are brutally murdered. With their bodies displayed on both their territories and GCPD taking on the case, Ignatius must decide whether it's best to make peace with other Cobbleflock members, or get rid of them as swiftly as possible.

_@Horvitz Corner, Gotham City:_

Gold. It encapsulated a grand hall’s interior; artsy golden chandeliers traced over gold-plated columns, as well as its elaborate patterns. Tar-colored parquet was laced with such, too. Orange lights from magnificent lamps flickered in the wind akin to candle light. Water dribbles from makeshift waterfalls, then falls into covered-up streams, as they go towards the club’s main attraction: The giant fish tank, wedged into the venue’s floor.

The visitors could see seals, belugas, and most importantly - penguins nesting in the craft rocks. Indeed, some parts of the aquarium transformed into a terrarium - the smell of which was isolated with steam and numerous hoses. Tables empty, dishes prepared. A gilded ribbon covered the entrance. This place was not opened yet. But the inside already had a logo of solid brass & onyx put over the grandiose entrance in the distance: “The Empyrean.”

Ignatius Ogilvy was there, too. He was nearly-alone in the entire building. Next to him - Roman Sionis. Another prominent mobster. ‘Former’ mobsters, the two of them claim to be. Three eyes staring at the logo at a safe place, while workers of theirs gave it their finishing touches.

“Still can’t believe you’re here?” Black Mask asked.  
“Not that I cannot,” Iggy said, “But I’ve only realized how much I put into work just now.”  
“It does get repetitive, but sometimes - you gotta lay off.”  
“Affirmative,” Ignatius stopped to light a cigarette. A gold-plated zippo matched the interior now. How perfect. “Twelve storeys of pure, unadulterated adultery. How many does Cobblepot have?”  
“I’unno,” Roman bulbed, “Like, four?”

“Well he’s fucked!” The smile on Ogilvy’s face can only be described as purified schadenfreude. Such great work must be appraised. The metallurgist high above is getting an extra grand to his commission pay. Tonight. But Iggy has to be fast - Roman is impatient. So are their men. So are the potential investors waiting outside. The golden thread must be cut by nine in the morning. But, since everything is prepared in advance, the Emperor Penguin had some time to nestle here.

Truth be told, even he didn’t know what the Empyrean will be. A club? A brothel? Maybe a cheaper spot for Afghanis? Drug trafficking was still a huge ‘problem’ of Gotham’s, after all. In fact, Iggy’s gaze was set on his pipe, wedged deep into his jacket. Sionis traced the eyes back to the target - a smug smile put onto his mug.

“Gonna share?” He asked.  
“Not yet,” Iggy replied, “Big day today. Just gettin’ ideas.”  
“What ideas? Busting morphine?”  
“Yeaaah,” he said again, “Straight out of Gotham Metropolitan. Give it to people that need it, get more bank from the dumb whores thinking it’s safe enough. Old hags pay good fortunes for morphine, especially… But.” Ogilvy stopped and looked around. No workers inbound. Then, a rough grab to Rommie’s lapel followed. One eye stared deep into his - the look of bottled-up anger on Sionis’s masked face is one hearty appetizer. Ignatius stared him down for a good, long while. Then, he continued, barely restraining himself: “...We do not, sell, shit, to kids. Am I clear?”

“Pf!” Roman managed to wiggle himself out somehow, and took a step back - a cowardly move, by Ogilvy’s standards, “When did YOU become a moralist, rich boy?” He said, bitterly.

Emperor Penguin stepped away from Roman, too. Both shared a look of disgust behind their masks. One literal, the other - emotional.  
“When my brother bled out on a sidewalk, Mr. Sionis.”  
“What? Hey… Not to generalize, Ogilvy, but every third person in Gotham had their parents die like tha-”

“ **No**!” The first son of Oswald’s took to his feet and glanced down - a crowd was gathering. Keep it down, Ogilvy, keep it down. “Older bro wasn’t a schmuck, you see. He’s a hard-working man, but a wallflower. And an addict. Framed by some disgusting slug, simply ‘cause he was an Irishman in an Italian block. They sold him the worst shit, too! This was back when I barely knew where and when. I don’t even know what’s worse - watching Robb get pelted with bullets or letting him rot alive…”  
“You and your ‘horror stories’... I whacked my own old man,” Roman countered Ignatius and stepped over to the catwalk, “And I’m damn proud of it. He’s a piece of shit that planned to sell my boss over. He’s my first, actually. Sobbed like I should have when I knocked the scalp offa him.”

“Well then,” Ogilvy muttered, “I expect the same loyalty from you. I expect you to whack me the second I do something stupid, Mr. Sionis. That’ll damage all of us. I expect respect, at least on my territory. But if I found out you’re making the same mistakes I did… Much like Comrade Robb Ogilvy, you will remain a legend from the day you do such. Now get your shit together, Mr. Sionis - we have guests to cater to.”

A command was given by a cant of Iggy’s head. The head engineers cut the golden thread, and a crowd of well-dressed patrons rushed in. Akin to a wave, the simple workers washed away. Only the rich and the curious remained. Sionis disappeared, too - only the more handsome face could stay. With a quick glance-over, Emperor Penguin lost himself among them. Dozens of staff members rushed into the main hall. They helped their guests out with finding their respectful places. And so, the Empyrean’s first day was kicked off with a blast: Hundreds of leaves made from real gold foil fell unto the onlookers, whilst sparkling wine grazed pyramids of glasses beside them. Under a grand impression of others clapping and cheering for his efforts, Ogilvy stepped down from the catwalk. He greeted his club’s first ever patrons with the friendliest face he could pull off, in spite of a gashing eye socket. Thankfully, hidden by a diamond and a monocle.

While Roman went out, Ignatius spent the next hour idly chatting and cajoling about with the patrons. Many big deals from the fourth power were there, too. Naturally, all questions were ignored - besides convenient ones, of course.  
“You’re so handsome, Mr. Ogilvy!”  
“Seems like jailtime only made you fresher, ha!”  
“Tell us your secrets, Mr. Ogilvy. We’ll make it an exclusive, i-if that’s not too hard…”  
“Yes, yes, of course,” Iggy replied, “One at a time, please! No, wait, I’m already too hard to deal with, you’re too kind, you’re…”

The facelessness of these babbling fools made for a perfect nuisance to ruin Iggy’s mood. He paid no mind, and smiled right back. Always pleasant-looking, no slip-ups, perfect model of leadership - a _gangstar_ , not gangster. This was the motto - this was the principle. A way of operation Gotham wasn’t quite used to. The less it is, the better, Iggy thought. Though his harsh self-discipline led to some unfortunate consequences, the better he looked, the better he felt. And Ignatius seemed to be at his peak by now.  
  
“Mr. Ogilvy,” a waiter called from behind, “Mr. Ogilvy?”  
“Yes, yes. I’m here,” Ogilvy said distantly.  
“There… Is a client, Sir. He wants to see you.”  
“For what reason?”  
“He did not state a reason, Sir.”  
“Why should I see him, then?”  
“He said it’s urgent, Sir.”  
“Fine - the client’s always right, after all…”

Emperor Penguin waddled up the staircase with heavy thuds. He left his employees tending to others, whilst a certain problem had to be dealt with. Tall and imposing, the guests at the proposed VIP lounge made way to him in an instant. Before him stood a single table, reserved for two differently-aged men. One in a gallant navy suit, with a bright-red bowtie and a notebook put over his chest, another - in a green suit with a matching red tie, and with a pirate-esque puppet resting in one hand. That last one also wore glasses - no way to look into his eyes. The matter has become quite concerning for Ignatius, as he waited for a reply from at least one of these two nuisances.  
“So,” he said impatiently, “What seems to be the problem, gentlemen? Is the food good enough? Something about the staff members being lousy?”

“O-On the contrary, Mr. Ogilvy, Sir,” the man in glasses spoke, “We, w-we’re enjoying ourselves plenty. Mr. Dunlow, Mr. Vickers, and I. I’m also quite s-sure you already-”  
“Know your agenda? You’re right, Mr. Wesker. Though, I didn’t know you came to Gotham so soon. Were there any… Urgencies, Mr. Vickers?” Dunlow, in the meantime, started picking his teeth and pulled pieces of brisket stuck in between his teeth.

A seething glare set between Martin and Ignatius. Two russet-brown peepers staring into a single, light-blue eagle-eye. No frowns, but no smiles, either.  
“Mind if I take a seat?” Iggy asked, while Martin gave out his orders.  
“Not at all,” Arnie repeated, “Please, sit.”  
“Aye!” Dunlow added, “Ye don’t look like a wee lad, Comrade Ogilvy. Ye sure ye won’t raid York the next hour? Heh, HEH-”  
“An savage I am, Mr. Dunlow - but a viking I am not,” Mr. Ogilvy said reassuringly, with a smile on his face and a handshake offered to the puppet. “Let’s go to my office - I prefer privacy.” The patched-up pirate shook his hand accordingly, firmer than he expected. Upon arrival to a more secluded space, Martin’s hands displayed their twisted symbols. The Muppet’s masked eyes traced them back, processing them into words at a quicker pace:

“I am not here for a childish brawl,” he spoke, “I am not here for any kind of competition, either. Ignatius - I may not know _how_ you feel about this, but I have a p-proposal, um…”  
“Proposal for what?” Ogilvy raised his brow. It was impossible not to look pleased by the boy’s eloquence with hands.  
“P… Pproposal for a partnership, Ignatius. I-I’m well aware of your feelings towards… Us, so to speak, but - I have p-plenty more to offer than any other younger brother.”  
“Really?” Iggy lit another cig, “And what _can_ you offer? Think about it, Martin. Think about it _good._ ”

“I’ve already made up my m-mind, Mr. Ogilvy...” Arnold paused, squinting at the smaller Penguin’s hands, “...A forty-five percent cut from all bets made on the Gotham Knights stadium and pubs adjacent. How does that sound?”  
“Hmm…” Emperor Penguin took a long, thoughtful drag, while the Songbird and Dunlow exchanged glances. “...Rather unrealistic, I’d say.” And now, Iggy furrowed his brows. His monocle fell off, thus revealing a diamond in an eye’s stead. Much to Martin’s concern, his older brother remained calm and collected. “Maybe it’s just ‘cause I don’t have such offers coming through that often. Sounds like you want to surrender, Mr. Vickers… That would be a wise decision. And, for your interest - even if you _did_ own Gotham Knights, profits would still be miniscule in comparison. To _daily_ revenue, even. You, my friend, are in a tight spot.”

Although Arnie sweated bullets, Marty kept his cool, too, and Dunlow - as per usual - fell asleep. Right in the middle of a conversation. “M… Mr. Ogilvy,” Wesker spoke, “W-We can also offer plenty of connections to a new market! Isn’t th-that worth anything?”  
“It is. Good point, Mr. Vickers. Though, what if I am not interested in oil trade? My suppliers from the Middle East are ready to sell their _kidneys_ for cheap just so I use their product. Your Norwegian friends might have too much pride to make a deal with me. And, if we’re being honest - isn’t it too… Expensive to do business there? I’m almost sad I’m so successful, Martin. I would’ve taken it if I were, say, Father’s bitchy nephew.”  
“But Mr. Ogilvy-”

“ **Quiet,** pet,” Mr. Ogilvy said. A single glare was enough to shun poor Arnold down. While the Muppet whimpered, the Puppet crossed his arms and threw a glare back. Although much more savage-looking, Mr. Dunlow acted more civilized in such jarring talks. Admittedly, Wesker missed Mr. Scarface in such moments, but his boss could handle it. Thank God he could handle it.

Martin, in the meantime, skimmed through his notes. He found an expensive-looking folder, one of many in his suitcase. It was a contracted agreement between the stadium’s owner and himself - Vickers became Gotham Knights’ owner two hours and fifty-four minutes ago. Lips pursed, eyes gleaming in the golden lights, the youngest Cobblepot smiled at the stoic Emperor Penguin. Ogilvy flicked a cig off to the corner, where a gilded ashtray rested. A smile cracked up on his face, too, but for a whole different reason; Thasius, his pet condor, jumped off his resting place and settled on his shoulder. After the big bird sat down, Iggy casually pulled a piece of beef jerky out of his coat. Thasius quickly grabbed and munched on it. Disgusting, fleshy sounds became the accompaniment to lousy trombones & drums. Ignatius eased into his chair and let his younger accomplice put the docs away.

“There’s one thing you must understand, Marty,” Iggy spoke and leaned forward, “I don’t mind your, or Mr. Wesker’s, or his… Acquaintance’s presence. Furthermore, I endorse this! Family should stick together in such laborious times. I don’t mind working with you, either, but - don’t you ever, _ever_ try to double-cross me. I’ll know of this the second you do it, snap your neck, and make sure you’re forgotten. Apart from that - we’re good! Oh, and, tell you what…” Thankfully, Iggy leaned back, practically daring Dunlow to slice his throat open with his hook. Thankfully for him, he did not do it.

“...I have an offer of my own: There’s a certain _nuisance_ I need tamed, alright. Malcolm St. Cloud. His sister wants to decimate not just the Father, but all of us. And I want to keep my reputation afloat. So long as you quietly snatch him, make him talk and put ‘im on a tight leash - you have my respects. Besides that - say, two hundred men for protection, an enclave in the Financial District, and funds plentiful enough for a stadium restoration. Do we have a consensus, gentlemen?”

Martin gave a silent, curt nod.  
“You, Mr. Wesker?”  
“Me?”  
“Yes, you.”  
“A-Ah… Y-Yes, I think this offer’s delightful, Mr. Ogilvy, Sir!”  
“Good boy. What about you, Mr…”  
“Dunlow.”  
“Dunlow, all right.”  
“Aye.”  
“Mhm. Any um… Requests? Questions?”  
“Nay.”  
“Not a man of many words?”  
“Why waste breath, lad? Just get on with it, will ye! Oh and - somethin’ to get bleezin’ with would be grand.”  
“So - booze. Gentlemen, I think we _do_ have a consensus. I’m pleased to say that this agreement-”

A waiter came up to Ignatius. The poor sod nearly got maimed by Thasius, who acted rather bratty after his meal. Of course, Ogilvy quietly pet him and then shooed him back to the resting place - an eagle’s bust close to the office’s ceiling. Unlike Arnold, Martin could hear every word of theirs, and from what he’s caught - it’s a murder, right down the alley. In an instant, Emperor Penguin’s face changed from a blissful expression back to a stern poker face.

“...Come with me, Mr. Vickers. From this point on, you are my Lieutenants - in case the two positions get vacant.”

***

_@City Hall District, Gotham City:_

A body is discovered right next to Gotham City Hall. Its eyes and tongue have been carved out. The press is appalled by the grotesque double murder, since another body is found at the entrance to the Gotham Knights stadium. The killer wanted to deliver a message, and he sure did; both were Ogilvy’s men. He has to hold a press conference on his own, Bullock barfs out onto the pavement at the sight of these, and Commissioner Gordon doesn’t feel well, either. He also meets the March Hare, who comes to him as a civilian, but eventually - James is roofied with scopolamine, and thus - led astray, to the Rockhopper’s hidden headquarters.

Droplets of crimson marked a spot in a narrow alley - one of Gotham’s many. Puddles of red marked the uneven asphalt next to a large dumpster. Teeth and parts of skin stuck out of its rim. The corpse’s face looked so beaten it was barely recognizable to the paramedics surrounding it. But, judging by his orange tie, and an onyx brooch on the lapel - it was Ogilvy’s property. Thumb, to be specific. Gordon wasn’t there, and Bullock looked rusty. Iggy’s senses tingled. Martin looked straight onto the cadaver. Mortified, but not sobbing or barfing. Arnold Wesker did the opposite of that; Mr. Dunlow gave out his testimony to detective Montoya. Wesker himself wiped his tears with a sleeve. To no avail, though. His whimpering intensified as Dunlow got louder. He wished to look away, and yet - could not, since Askold’s eyes stared into his.

Whatever’s left of them, anyway.

Two bloodied, gashing wounds gazed into the abyss. Lips torn apart, mouth gaped open in a scream of agony. A last, painful scream at that. Thumb had no tongue but disgusting meat in its stead. The body’s fresh, as the tongue still jerked and shuddered. Wounds still bled with warm blood. No semblance of a sound remained - only sirens’ whining. A camera’s flash rendered the Penguin trio awake once more. A report has to be made, after all. The cops’ idle muttering only made Ogilvy more nervous. Seeing a man as big as he tap his foot around made others crumble, too.

“Not even Joker could pull such a stunt,” Gordon said to Iggy in a hushed-down tone, “Not his style, anyway. Just as brutish, but… Without the ‘fun’ part added into it. Not Scarecrow or any other fugitive, either…”  
“Then who is it?” Ogilvy responded bluntly.  
“...We might be dealing with someone new here. Someone rough and dastardly. A monster in human flesh, since I haven’t seen Croc do that to anyone, even. This bastard may also be your supposed cousin-”

“Cousin?! You think Joshua Cobblepot is capable of this, Commissioner?”  
“That’s the point. We know nothing of him but that he died six years ago. Apparently not this time around. He can be a real cinnamon roll, and he may be the one who did _this_ to your, ah…”  
“CFO.”  
“Yes-yes, CFO. We’ve got another body up north, close to the Knights stadium.”  
“The stadium?” Iggy looked back at Martin, “Isn’t that yours, Marty?”  
Vickers gave a slow, distant nod to Ignatius. Mortified as he is, Jim’s underlings wrapped a warm blanket around him and put him aside. As the crowd dispersed, only Ignatius remained. Hell, even his club ran fine. The first night is a success! But at what cost?

“I’m… Sorry.”

Emperor Penguin stood there, frozen in time. Martin finally shook him out of his stupor some hours later. The narrow alley was already dark and misty by this point. Thumb’s body was carried away long ago, and a bouquet or two were in his place. Blood still stained the wall in front of him. And Martin? He shook the big bird like nobody else could.  
“Ah!” Ogilvy’s head turned down, towards Marty. He tried to force a smile on: “Got carried away there, eh? Where’s Arnold?”  
Songbird, in the meantime, scribbled through his notes. _“Managing the club with Yarrow, Snakeskin and Bones,”_ he wrote, _“I was looking for you - thought you came back. Bought a bouquet for Thumb. Was Gotham always this horrifying? :C”_

“As far as I can remember it,” Iggy said, gruffly. No matter how much he tried to quit smoking, the habit always returned. Furthermore - it worsened on every attempt. So he quit quitting and accepted his fate, lighting another fag in honor of Askold and Andrew. Their careers were short-lived, but vivid enough for him to remember. “Such is the nature of our work, Martin. Unfortunately. Hey uh… Want one?”  
Martin quickly shook his head.  
“Feh… Well, take one if you want one, either way. I’m not the one to judge…” Ignatius faced Marty now. The latter’s stare spoke of many different emotions. _“WE MUST GO,”_ he wrote again. Then, he tore the page out, since he didn’t wish to bother his new ally. Iggy took a deep breath - this was going to be a mouthful:

“Oswald- I mean, Dad, showed me around town ever since my real parents died. Like many, I never recovered from it, Marty. But Dad, uh… He did his very best to give me a childhood I never had. We lived a normal life until I got interested in what he’s doing at _night._ When the time was right, he started taking me to his office. To his deals, too. He’s shown me how business is done, every bill, every intricate little detail of his kingdom. Me, though? I wanted an empire. Sure, I betrayed Dad, but who didn’t? _I hope he understands…_ Well either way, it… Pains me. To see you suffer, as well as your acquaintances. To see my friends overwhelmed by what’s happened. And to see my _resources_ ** _wasted._** I must be the best for them, I have to be! I’ll destroy what’s left of my previous self, Martin, I-”

Words stuck in the Emperor Penguin’s throat. A Songbird hugged around his waist and gave him the warmest bear-hug possible. Rather miniscule in size, Martin barely reached high enough for this to not look awkward. Rain gathered, too. Blood washed off the adjacent building’s wall. “There, there,” Ignatius pat his younger brother’s back. Martin’s sobs were muffled out by rainfall and traffic. The Empyrean’s music could be heard even in its backyard. Despite the cold March weather, Ogilvy remained, and Vickers stayed right by his side.

“Perhaps,” he said, “We should act better than these savages. We _can_ and _will_ act better. I promise.”


	12. A Hot Welcome, A Sweet Begone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald, Edward, and Viktor arrive back to Gotham! Nobody seems to notice since they come back under the night's veil. Untraced and undetained, the real King of Gotham and his Court arrive to the sight of Penelope tending to an incredibly-tipsy Bullock. There are arguments and revelations of what happened between these two for the past couple of months, but overall? Ozzy is glad to be back. Edward is being a smartass, Viktor - a guy with a gun, Penny - a sweet-for-nothing helper, Thorne - an asshole. Everything's back in shape! Or, well... Is it? And thus, there's always something to make a welcome much warmer during such a cold, rainy season.

_@Diamond District, Gotham City:_

Dark was the night. Cold was the sea. The King’s return was not expected by his Court. The King was quite aware of that, too - so was his Wizard. Oswald and Edward, in flesh, trudged across the motorboat’s tiny bit of space. Even the Logician couldn’t resist. It’s so cold outside. Even for March, and March is never a good month in Gotham. The constant rain made Ozzie’s lungs vulnerable to cold. All kinds of cold; icy peepers, though, set on his precious home: The Iceberg Lounge.

As per usual, the surrounding waters were guarded by a task force at Tricorner Coast. Though, there isn’t much to guard, as the Iceberg mostly sticks to the shore nowadays. A gargantuan structure it is: A repurposed oil tanker, it adds more width than height to Gotham’s skyline. Tricorner Yard is a big place, though the grandiose club stands in between it and the South Side. Oswald bought it long ago, mostly to hide his funds from others. Back when the Iceberg was on land, Cobblepot saw the opportunity in the grandiose space of the ship.

A heaping mountain of both ice and metal, the Casino looks as if it shouldn’t stand… Yet it does. Snowcaps and crystalline towers have replaced the main bridge. Gotham’s biggest performance hall replaced the upper decks. Lit up with blue during nighttime, Ozzy’s crown jewel shines amid Gotham. Much like it’s intended to. It disperses the orange and grey, it adds uniqueness to its architecture! And, of course… It sparkles.

Penguin caught a stare from one shoreman close to their boat. A disguised means of transport, he shouldn’t be seen by anyone until arrival. Thankfully, Viktor knew what to do; that poor fellow fell into the water, unseen by the rest of the crew. A silent, merciful death is the best Zsasz can offer. Much to the chagrin of his old boss. After successfully coming through as a mere fishing boat, it was left on the shoreline right next to the massive structure. Oswald, Edward and Viktor had to think fast; they jumped off the boat, straight onto the decks, then moved along a crowd of passerbies and entered an intricate network of steel-plated corridors. Oz and Ed knew the way. Viktor followed. The King of Gotham and his Council are back on the throne. Or, well… Are they?

The dimly-lit cram-space leads directly to Cobblepot’s office, way high up on the former bridge. Its decor is anything but subtle, however - Oswald already paid no mind to it. His eyes half-lidded, he didn’t expect to walk up on a scene, but... Unfortunately, he did: Penny was here. Sleeping. In his very bed, right next to the bathing space, and somebody else laid in bed next to her. Someone just as rotund as Cobblepot, mind you, but a fair bit taller than the ole’ bird. Ed Nygma did NOT look amused. It was a long time since Oswald saw him this angry. He yanked the blanket off the pair. The man was identified as Detective Harvey Bullock. Penelope sat up and looked at her employer in terror. The Riddler’s face twisted in a grim mug of anger and despair. “Stand up,” she wailed, “I SAID STAND UP!!!” 

And Penny did stand up. Bullock did not. Because he was too damn high to hear Ed and Lark arguing: 

“Sent your boss away to bring THIS piece o’ lard up to his bed, yeah? Ye fuckin’-”

“You were supposed to guard him, not crawl into my sheets. I was fulfilling my duty, and although I’ve no excuse...”

“Your sheets? And you dare call yourself loyal, you fuckin’ skank?! I can’t believe this!”

“Shall I remind you who was left in charge of the estate?”

“Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot-”

“NO. Penelope Solust. I…”

“What? You? Oh, I’ll razzle-dazzle it out of you, twat! HE is your boss!”

“IT’S NOT WHAT YOU THINK IT IS!!!”

“Oh SHUT up! Shut up before I carve you up, no questions asked!”

“Try me, Nygma! Try me! I maintained order despite all the stress, and THIS… This is what helped me through.”

Oswald stood in silence for a good minute or so until Lark and Riddler threw hands at one another. Well - it was Eddie who wanted to go first. Not typically one to express emotion at all, he was fuming. Even with a corkscrew he managed to look dangerous. Penelope readied an actual dagger, though. Was there no respect between those two? The situation is difficult. Right as they neared one another, Cobblepot put his umbrella’s blunt tip in between them. “Stop,” he said, “There’s no point in these squabbles. Ed - go ahead and see to our… Guest. Penelope - put something more presentable on.”

“But-”

“NO. BUTS. Do as I say and then we discuss the issues!”

At such an immediate order, the Solust sisters swallowed simultaneously, then disappeared by the opposite corners. Edward and Viktor eased down on the situation. One prodded Bullock with his cane, the other mushed his face up with the knife Gwen dropped. 

“What of him?” Eddie asked, “Harv’s breathing, but I don’t think he’s waking up soon.”

“Look at this, Boss! That’s Adderall, isn’t it? Prescribed, too…” Viktor gently shook a pack of pills, which sloshed around more than they should have. A nasty sound, that was. Oz waddled on over to check up on the Detective, who went through the after-effects of his precious medicine. 

More silent than usual, Penguin tripped into a rocking chair and let it creak on for a little while. The Riddler and Mr. Zsasz toyed around with their doughy plaything, bickering like utter children in the meantime. More pressing issues lulled Cobblepot’s mind now. He never knew how tense Gwen and Penny really were. It must’ve been a tough task, to get the lady in beige to agree and take them in. Edward paid no mind to human emotions, but Oswald could feel it. Heart aching and sinking, immense sadness overwhelmed him. It was good to be home, but - was it even a home without its harmony? Oh, right - Swan and Lark returned to his office. A spacious place, mind you - a classy one, too! Busts and portraits, baroque tubs and desks and couches composed his main workspace. There was even a whole pool beneath the floor’s glass, by which Penelope got back and tended to Harvey’s slumber. 

With a glass of ice-cold water, respectively. 

Bullock rose up almost immediately. The Rogues surrounding him flocked around him. No wonder - the Detective looked a lot like a hurt bulldog. There was nothing but fear and anger in his gaze. Penelope stood by his side. Penguin, Riddler and Zsasz rested at the bed’s front. And he - he sat on Cobblepot’s nest of sorts, buck-naked, hungover and medicated to a stain on the bedsheets. Harvey’s body shifted towards the exit. No, too many people. Then, he reached for his gun right besides his hip. No, Viktor will shoot him on sight. At last, he reached for his pills - the most precious thing he’s got, to be fair. Only for it to be swatted out of his hands by an umbrella’s blunt tip. 

Oswald wasn’t just livid; on the contrary, he was emotionless. At least in the face. Bullock, given his fiery nature, wanted to babble something out, but remembered courtesy went a long way and quietly hopped off the bed, bent over to take his Adderall back. A rough kick was graciously donated to his lard-ridden side, then accompanied by a loud “OOMPH!” The Bulldog sprawled out on the floor now. “Oswald,” he said, “I’m sorry-”

“Don’t you ‘sorry’ me, Bullock!” A reply followed suit. Eddie held Oz back with his slender hands, whilst the other three looked away and began cleaning the place up. A moment of silence was also broken by Cobblepot: “I know what you did for the past couple of months. You come to my house, put your problems onto my employees, schputz them in the meantime AND possibly collect phoney evidence to lock me up! As far as I’m concerned, you’ve got problems, Detective, BIG problems!” 

“Don’t you tell ME about my problems, you fat piece of turkey shit! I didn’t schputz anyone!”

“Yes you did and yes you will hear about your own problems!” Both Viktor and Ed held Oz back, barely able to keep him in place, “You nearly ruined it for her in my absence and you will PAY for this!” 

“FUCK YOU! You weren’t thrown darts at by this Riddle-cunt! You didn’t blow yer money off for a fuckin’ shrink. You didn’t have your best friend killed. You never lost a JOB. So shut up about my problems, Gobble-freak!” 

“Rrrh- Alte makhsheyfe! I’ll kick your teeth right up your-”

“Oswald - you stop,” Penny stepped up. Her silent gesture put the council’s hands off of him, as her own caught Penguin into a warm embrace. “I’m just… Glad to see you back. Whether you came back early or not, you’re home, and I want you to feel that way.”

“But how can I feel home when this…” Oz pointed at the shimmering Detective, “...This man has come to you all soggy and puts his shit on you? Lark, what’s the meaning of this?”

“It means I’m his maitresse,” Penny said, “Nothing more, nothing less. It’s a job thing. Plus, you told me I could, you know… Rule however I please.”

“I… I can’t deny it, Penelope, but why HIM of all the goodfellas you could have shagged?!”

“Cause I’m earning you favors,” Lark added in a hushed-down tone, “Look at Bullock. He’s in a critical condition, much like you were. Though it ain’t his lungs that need help - it’s his brains, and I’m not ready to have Harvey thrown in Arkham. It’s gonna be a mess.” 

“Well… It is your decision, Penny. I may not approve of this, but I suppose we have Detective Bullock on our side now…” A squint from the Penguin soon followed, “...Don’t we?”

“Sure, Penguin. Sure we are.” Naturally, Bullock was displeased with such an arrangement. But what else he had to do? There were all these dangerous fugitives around. He’s not dumb enough to try and be a hero! There are no heroes in Gotham. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t hide his tears on the way to the dressing room. Ignoring the shaky voice and the quiet sniveling, Oswald finally sat back at his desk. For the first time in, what? Almost exactly five weeks or so. His lungs were back in shape after a good rest. Honestly, he didn’t regret it. The rest of his council let the Big Bird get back to his nest. Ozzy felt up the seat, then the desk, all his little tinker-toys and finally - his precious umbrella collection. 

“Lark. Penny. What is the current state of affairs?”

“Well,” Lark stooped her tone down, “All four of your alleged relatives are in Gotham. The Iceberg’s operating smoothly, I made sure nobody’s gotten any ideas. Promptly, um, disposed of some less-than desirable elements, as you like to call ‘em. It’s been well enough, but… What are we gonna do now?”

“You? You rest. And I - I’ll come out and address the people. I will take no other requests, they must know Oswald Cobblepot’s back in town!”

And so Oswald Cobblepot rose. He strolled out of his office, alone, and down the stairs of his natural habitat. The pleasant cool and the hall’s hum hit his face & ears. This was more of a home than the Cobblepots’ mansion, to be fair. It was also quite nice to see others still present in his establishment. Randall Huxley from the Daily Planet, the entire Gotham Knights team resting at the biggest table, and most importantly - Rupert Thorne. An ex-mobster and incumbent mayor of Gotham City. A personality akin to Oswald’s, there was a mutual sense of disdain between the two. Still, Penguin frequented the Stacked Deck, and Thorne was oftentimes drinking Martini at the Iceberg. Both their eyes met as Cobblepot did his routine check-ups.

It’s like Ozzy never actually disappeared from Gotham! Which he did not. But it’s nice to have a breath of fresh air without having to cough it all out the second after. Rupert’s much older and more weathered face scrunched up in a cringing gesture, though it then evolved into a little grin. Nothing genuine about the Mayor. Not even the exit polls. Still, the ole’ bird thought it’d only be so courteous to visit his old pal and check up on the tuna platter he’s ordered. 

“I know what you’re gonna ask,” Thorne grumbled, “My tuna’s good, Cobblepot. Stop looming over my back like a dentist with them pliers, will ya.”

“I just came up to you, old friend, no need to be so brash about it,” Oswald took a stance close to Thorne’s side. Security surrounded both of them, but didn’t dare touch neither the Mayor, nor the Owner. 

“The customer is always right, Cobblepot, regardless of their tone. The tuna’s good. The fries, too. And the wine. I’m not one to speak on that sommelier bullshit. Let’s cut it, too - where t’fuck have you been last month?”

Oswald looked in one direction, then the other. “On vacation,” he said, “With men and women you claim to despise. The lungs are a bitch - had to, didn’t want to.”

“I see. Don’t give a shit, really - now that you’re back, though: Your kids are here.”

“How many?”

“Alla them, I think. Fuck I know about your daddy issues. Thing is - they’re gonna cause a lotta trouble, and you must know that I won’t hesitate. I’ll shoot and stomp and jail the bitch who dares disrupt the town. My town.”

“Then you must know you’re going out, too, Rupert,” Oswald added as he lit a match for both their cigs, “Nobody touches or scolds my kids but me, capiche? I’ve got this figured out.”

“Sure you do.”

“Yes I fucking do, Rupert! I would’ve stayed for another month or so if I didn’t concern myself with this khazerschaft. And, as ex-mayor to mayor - don’t underestimate crowdfunding and their outrage. They won’t let anyone throw their way of life over. I’m not one to tell you that. Use it, Rupert, use it wisely.”

“Is that all?” Thorne huffed in pitiful annoyance, “Fix it, Cobblepot, and fix it fast! There are too many of you birdbrains in my town-” 

“Remember who donated enough funds for you to be in charge of my town, Thorne. And stop acting like you have an inkling of power in this race. If you’re that much of a chicken, hide your withered bone-ass somewhere safe and let me do the job for you.”

This definitely shut the Mayor up. There wasn’t anything else he could have said to better himself out of it. So he chose silence and defeat, joking it all aside with his small clique and tuna and fries. Penguin, in the meantime, went down to the bar. He checked every single bottle’s presence, their placement, and naturally - the quality of drinks his yes-men made. Martini’s always the right sort. Most around him were cheering on, including Thorne - that slimeball. 

There were plenty of reasons to dislike Rupert Thorne. There was no charm and no morals in this greasebag - all he did is prey on the weakest, the most helpless of Gotham. Nothing really changed ever since he rose up as a Falcone offshoot. And it’s not like Oswald got rich and infamous with honor and servitude, either. But Thorne was an absolute disgusting mess. The way he treated Candice - his assistant, or his secretary, or his personal whore - was just as atrocious. Other women were treated even worse, since a grope or plain gossip was in the norm for Rupert. Shame is, he could afford a good lawyer, and the news he brought were usually true… Usually. 

Now that he’s in such an old age, Thorne still can’t be trusted by anybody. The press calls him ‘the Pigeon’, but that’s an insult to Pigeons. All birds are precious to the Penguin, even the flying rats of Gotham - they come in packs, and their background is as noble as ever, despite their current grey coating. There was nothing noble in Thorne - he’s a bigot, he’s an abusive prick whenever he gets the power he wants, and he’s the slimiest bastard whenever he doesn’t. Rupert Thorne is scum, and Oswald Cobblepot never thought he’d state that loudly and with pride. But damn it felt good to be in possession of all his assets. Thorne owes the ole’ bird. And now, he could be booted out of the office the second Oz puts his tongue to use.

“Mr. Cobblepot,” the bartender called, “There’s a man in the GCPD uniform at the entrance. Says he must see you immediately.”

“Ah?” Oz’s head perked up. Dozing off was a habit with such good booze. “Ahh dreck… Tell the Doors I’m comin’.”

“Already done, sir,” the ‘tender added, then returned to the crowd of clients. All decked-out to the brim, the Iceberg’s got another great night. Cobblepot threw another glance across a deck of his own: Viktor’s playing around with his big bad guns. Edward’s flirting with both matriarchs and patriarchs of the City. Penny’s overlooking the hall in search of dissatisfied customers. And he’s down there, already fishing out the next big moneybag. Things have returned to their usual, steady flow. This made Oz smile again; warm beaches and spicy shootouts with Gwen Solust might be great, but this - the Iceberg - is exactly what true power feels like.

Penguin welcomed a whole squadron of policemen with that same warm smile. Without getting it back, he was pushed aside by the leading inspector. 

“Good evening,” he said, “What’s the nature of this invasion, officer?” 

A paper was flashed into Oswald’s face - supposedly a search warrant. “We’re lookin’ for illegal substances n’ unlicensed arms if you have any.”  
“On the orders of who?”   
“I don’t answer such questions,” The officer in question answered dryly, whilst the rest of his squadron walked into the Lounge. Fully-armed, masked, no insignia or badges seen.   
  
Naturally, the guests got worrisome, but none were let through the exit by these thugs. Penguin and Riddler’s guards quickly got to work: They pushed the PD forces back and let the customers through, right as the Logician and Viktor approached the Big Bird. They stood behind Oswald and examined the struggling law enforcement.   
“Let us through!” One particular officer barked, “You are resisting arrest and refusing assistance!”   
“You are arresting these people for, what?” Edward stepped forward, “Where’s the search warrant? What precinct are you from? Ghh- Jesus, let me through, Oz!”   
“I’m rather curious, too!” Oswald said. Both he and the Logician pushed through the phalanxes of their own security, solely to find the commander of that lot. It was one hell of a challenge; no signs of recognition besides height could be seen. That officer, though, was rather tall and bulky in nature. Cobblepot waved his umbrella at him, but couldn’t see through the ruckus of a crowd in panic. He screamed: “Where is your badge?! Where’s your badge?!”   
  
What the old bird didn’t see was crucial; there was a gun pointing right into his forehead. Viktor jumped in exactly when the trigger was pulled. Momentarily, Oswald’s eyes widened, as a loud gunshot almost burst his eardrum. A sharp pain hit his shoulder. Warm blood trickled down his coat, barely visible on its black bearskin. Another ear heard both screams of terror and orders to shoot on sight. One good thing, though - the guardsmen were close enough to keep the bastards’ rifles down. Still, multiple gunshots ensued, and a pair of retreating troops got the screaming Cobblepot out of the line of fire. The crowd dispersed in every direction, thus allowing for a real gunfight to begin:

Zsasz was especially good at it. His pistols did not stop for a single second throughout Ozzy’s retreat to the main bar stall. A strategic position, it allowed for the bartenders to grab their own rifles and trickle lead down the militia’s bodies. With most of the crowd laying down, there was plenty of space to shoot from both sides. There was no screaming from the guests, but rather - the militiamen themselves. They’re on the losing side here. Oswald, with all his bottled-up anger and bravado, rose from the counter and launched buckshot from his umbrella’s vicinity. The big ball of lead didn’t just hit a wall - it pierced through it and ended up in one of the officers’ skulls. And, Penguin could hear neither his screams nor Edward’s now. Thankfully, the big green man was safe behind the counter, and Viktor worked them up one by one. 

Then the real GCPD came. With two fronts on their side, there wasn’t much to do, though the police force was thrice as big as the two Penguins’ forces combined. And yes, indeed - there _was_ a Penguin. Dressed in similar garbs to the Iceberg’s owner, this one was exceptionally-tall and imposing. A top hat towered about the pristine-white face of a gas mask, and the bright-orange necktie glistened among all those blacks, whites and blues. He even had a walking stick with a bird’s head as its handle. Oz saw him for only a second - he was throwing about half a dozen officers out of the window, with the sheer force of his shoulders. A gallant knight, really. If it wasn’t for the fact he’s there to kill him. However, seeing as most of his militiamen had faltered, the Emperor Penguin dashed away and jumped out of the same window soon after. Everyone’s morale stood at an all-time low, but seeing as the faux-cops did not stop resisting, Penguin and Riddler’s men did the opposite. They weren’t handcuffed, nor were they stricken with batons or tased. 

At last, gunshots halted. The Lounge’s patrons were carefully guided out of the building, and medical help’s provided to the ones in need. Many of these guests were wounded. Most were either sweating bullets or sobbing. Oswald saw everything, but heard nothing: He could see the faces of utter despair and primal fear. He could see the Bat’s shadow lurking in the distance, alongside Gordon’s. He could see Edward’s hands waving in front of his eyes. And then - he woke up from this stupor-like state. Not like the old bird could hear very well, but Ed said something like ‘we got ‘em good!’ or ‘these guys are fools!’ It seems only he saw Iggy in this pile of scum. The last person he wanted to see in this mess, is Ogilvy. But it’s clearly Ignatius! And if he’s working side by side with these unknown (and very poorly-trained) henchmen, this means war. Something the Penguin wanted to avoid for as long as possible. The time is now, he understood - time for real preparation, acquisition of assets and putting his offspring back under his wing. “Yeah, Eddie,” Oz added faintly with a blank, tired face, 

  
“Yeah. Call the other birdies. Big, little, I don’t care - we need everybody. I’m having a press-conference tomorrow morning. We’re having a _family dinner_ after that.”


	13. Rockhopper Rising, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joshua and Fyodor finally arrive in Gotham City! However, they are laying low and doing research on the district they plan on taking - the Narrows. Numerous challenges present themselves while the pair explores the map. Their first target is a group of Anarchists and former GCPD officers - the Rojas Brigade. The real question here is, will the lost bird take a more peaceful route, or will he take the path of extermination and anger he's already used to? That, and far more, in the upcoming tidbits!

_ @The Narrows, Gotham City: _

Although Gotham isn’t famous for good weather, today a rarity occurred: A sunny day. A lightbulb of toxic-yellow shone bright in the pale-blue sky above town. The heat coming off of it made Gotham’s stink all the more fragrant. Piles of trash bags rot beneath one’s feet, and beside it lay corpses of rats and God knows what. Every third cottage has its blinds shut, despite the visible humidity. Steam rises from the melting, broken pavement. Not even the sun’s shimmering gaze can save the Narrows from themselves. Nothing, nothing ever helped the most wicked part of the accursed Gotham City. 

Except for two  _ very  _ special fugitives.

March is that special month when snow begins to melt, then shit & piss begin thawing immediately after. Every third window in the Narrows was windowless, the pair’s residence included. Mold formed on the crusty wallpaper a long time ago. The walls themselves fell apart in some places, which gave the tiny hamlet the chic exposed brick pattern. Even the wooden chair felt creakier than it should be. Still, Joshua sat in front of the planked-off window, looking down unto the world with the lenses of pure crimson. 

Fyodor, on the other hand, looked a little less pleased with himself. There was no proper computer table or chair, so he had to sit on an arrangement of crates, instead. Higher ones went for workspace, lower ones - for the ‘bench’. A pile of empty energy drink cans stacked up across the board, next to the monitors & multiple keyboards. 

The March Hare’s fingers continued effortlessly typing big numbers in, despite his head resting atop some old lady’s rug used as a tablecloth. Stains on the shirt, the gear, and the rug itself sweetened the stench up, at least. And yet, Fedya’s icy eyes feel droopy, despite the amount of caffeine in his body. “Mwuuuuh…” A single groan came from the bunny’s side. His hands finally dropped down, and swung below the waist akin to dead weight. 

“S’up?” Josh asked, lighting a cigarette. 

Fedya took the fumes in, then sighed rather deeply: “Work, Joshy. Isch alwaysch work. I’m tired!” 

Cobblepot puffed on his cancer-stick through the boards, then rose up and drank whatever rubbish Sokoloff drank. “You haven’t slept for four nights,” he said, “No wonder you’re exhausted. No amount of energy drinks can keep you up for this long. And I think of how you aren’t getting heart attacks from this shit. S’ gross.”

“I did!” The Hare perked up with a big fake grin on his face, “But before we met, HA! Well  _ anyway _ , you’ll be very unschatischfied if I won’t find you the right people, and I’m tryin’ to do that, but the internet here ish **shiet** . I’m usching three towersch t’get the schignal n’ Fedsch off our buttsch!” 

“And you’re doing a great job at that. What about the Pigs?”

“What about ‘em?”

“Did you get into their brains?”

“Well YEAH, but I’m keepin’ it low scho we won’t be trashed back! You know, it’sch sch’till a thing.”

“I know,” Josh took another puff and sat back down, “So why the fuck  _ are  _ you tired and bored?”

“We haven’t been out for daaaaaysch, and it’sch fucky here!” Fyodor slumped down from his resting place and instead laid across an olden couch used as a bed. Arms crossed, thin lips pouting. “And, the schtuff I found isch typical: Riotsch, autonomous-s-s regionsch, shit like that. We’re at a dead end!”

Cobblepot lazily dropped the cigarette butt onto the paved floor, then stomped it down with a loud thud. For the first time in ages, he took his shades off, and threw his greatcoat onto an olden hanger. Three steps closer, and Fyodor was pressed up against the wall, clumped up and scared shitless of the stare he was to endure; the pink-eyed, bleeding stare, that was now seen as a sign of great misfortune ahead. 

“You didn’t complain as much when we were back in Codburgh,” he said through gritted teeth, “I’m starting to grow weary of this, Fyodor. We’re a  _ team,  _ and your own bitching doesn’t help it as much, now does it?”

A nod followed suit, as quickly as the bunny could shake his smart lil’ noggin.

“Good,” Josh continued, “I see you understand the importance of our cause and deed. And you have to prepare, since we…” Cobblepot paused, resting up against Fyodor’s tech boxes in the meantime, “...We will commit atrocities. Ones Gotham hasn’t seen since the War of Jokes and Riddles. Something so  _ vile  _ and  _ immoral  _ it will make Batman retch in disgust… Such is the price of our dominance. You knew full-well what you signed up for back in Vlatava. I’ll demolish this God-forsaken town and the fat bird they worship akin to Mammon.” 

The pressure rose in the Rockhopper’s body, without his own notice. Fyodor, concerned and confused, shakily gave the rising tyrant a dirty towel, to wipe the bloody ‘tears’ with. Both ghastly creatures were now doused in crimson, though, it seems Josh felt a slight bit better. Good for the Hare - he’s shaking, too. “Theatrics aside, Fyodor - what you’ve found is… Helpful enough.”

“Gee thanksch,” Sokoloff replied, crossing his arms, “An’ I thought you were gunna kick my teef out, here n’ then! Well anyway, sch’ all I could find. It’sch really quiet in here, I’unno why.” 

“That’s the shitty connection - and you know what we’re about to do, Fedya?”

“Make it… Shittier?” The March Hare’s grin now matched the Rockhopper’s, as the two of them finally sat on the makeshift bench.

“Yes. Nothing goes in, nothing goes out. As if anything ever did - they cut off the Narrows from Gotham’s main water and electricity supply. No wonder it stinks here.”

A snicker from Fyodor made Joshua chortle, as well. The GCPD feed had multiple voices overlapping one another, as well as the overall static. Sometimes, Cobblepot wondered how the albino freak could read such frequencies, but never bothered to ask him, anyway. He unwrapped the map of Gotham City, too, and pinned it to a more or less dry, clean wall. Marks were made prior, since he was about to explain things to the bunny lad like a preschool teacher. This was always exciting. Fyodor, although busy with making the static more prominent, turned his head away from the monitor and towards Josh, whose hammer started gliding across the makeshift board:

“The Narrows aren’t that big, but they’re divided by many petty gangs,” Josh explained, “There are three distinct regions that we know of, though. First, we have the Bowery; to my knowledge, Professor Pyg and Scarecrow share this hood, and their monstrosities frequently clash with one another. Both pose a great threat to the overall plan, but their brains could be used for its very fulfillment. Negotiations and execution are both viable possibilities.

Next - Burnley. Our main target. That’s where the many gangs come from: The Barons of Burnley, they call themselves. In reality, those are the schmucks that fell from grace prior. Everyone’s there - Thorne, Maxie Zeus, Zucco and Zitti clans, Maroni remnants. Whatever scum is there - we either kill it or bring it to our heel. No negotiations. Only blood will cleanse those sacks of shit.

Park Row is the third region, and now it’s divided between two rebellious factions: First is the Rojas Brigade, led by the eponymous former PD chief, and then there are the Butcher-Bitches. Their leader, their customs, their whole gang - everything about them scares  _ me  _ shitless. Those are the real radicals, if y’know what I’m spewing at you. Former sex workers with bows and arrows are scarier than all Burnley Baronies united. We don’t mess with ‘em. Negotiations  **only.** ”

Josh stopped for a moment to take a breath, but it instead turned into a full-blown coughing fit. Damn ciggies. Or oil fumes. Or practically any gift his homeland had. Fyodor rose from his seat, and folded the map against the wall proper. Indeed, the Narrows didn’t seem like a part of Gotham at all, from the first glance. And yet, they were an integral part of it, at the same time. It’s always odd, seeing situations like these: Like cancer, the detached slums grow in size, quarantined off by the local authorities, and yet - their dependence on these slums grows stronger with each passing day. Ironic. The Waynes, the Kanes, the Cobblepots - everybody tried to turn this place into a gentrified safe haven, but none succeeded. The Narrows is akin to a Bermuda Triangle, but instead - it was very,  _ very  _ real. 

“Okay… Scho we jusch’t, go in there, and…?” Fyodor asked. 

“Yeah,  _ gh-hmm,  _ yeah that’s phase one. Fuck diplomacy, fuck the Geneva Convention, fuck the people,” Josh said angrily, “We are in the wilderness of concrete and metal. Just like Coddy is. So we’ll bring this culture here and teach these savages some manners… While  _ also  _ executing revenge on the traitors.  **Our traitors.** I get the Penguin - you get the Mad Hatter. As promised.”

“Well ain’t that jusch’t  _ peachy, _ ” The Hare jumped up and shook his twiggy hands around, like a Ragdoll, “But. Who are we gunna knock outta the game? Who’sch the firsch’t target?” He asked, and then settled right beside the window. As the boards started coming off, Josh caught Fedya right as he was about to fall down. 

“I do the talking, Fyodor. You do the communications. We must either fulfill the requests of those cunts we’ll be talking to, or make life here much harder for ‘em. So I think I know the first target, already.”

“Uh… Them bein’?”

“Rojas. And his gang of hobos. I’ll make him either my new bitch, or my new armchair.”

Fyodor was, indeed, about to collapse, but instead - fell right into Joshua’s embrace. A cold, reeking embrace of a man thrice dead. No emotions but unadulterated schadenfreude made their way onto the Rockhopper’s face, as he adjusted his tie, put his glasses & coat back on, armed himself with a Beretta, a hammer, and a couple knives, then walked straight through the broken window boards, off to do the talking that was promised. 

*** 

Upon entering Park Row, Josh, among the many others that walked there, noticed a couple of its defining features: The Monarch Theatre, at the very end, had numerous bright billboards outlining its location. Most windows were barred off and sealed shut, as per usual, but some remained hollow and burnt-out. Most of the ‘thawing’ stopped there, too. Presumably, dug up for fuel. Numerous chimneys were still operational in this part of Gotham, as black, billowing smoke rose from those old cottages. Imposing and tall back then, now they looked crooked and decommissioned, even. 

At some point, Cobblepot really did feel home. The bricks, bright-crimson still, contrasted quite plenty with the pale-yellow of these homes’ stucco molding. One banner, bright-red, hung from some buildings on the left side, and another - black and yellow - hung from the right side of the Row. This street, although mostly abandoned nowadays, served as a dividing line of two warring factions mentioned prior; The Rojas Brigade, and the Butcher-Bitches. 

The Rockhopper took a turn left, into the backyards and narrow alleyways. This was a spot of utmost vulnerability, of course. Naturally, he did so intentionally, for Joshua tested Rojas’s troops. The rapidity with which they reacted, their numbers, attitude, strength and compatibility. What happened in the next few minutes was expected, but still disappointing:

Half a dozen men ran straight ahead, their antiquated M16s covered in snow and dust from lack of use. “Down, Down!” They screamed. Lack of qualification is quite evident. Their stance showed they knew how to use light arms, but not ones they currently had possession of. Still, Joshua gave in, knelt before them, and immediately put his arms to the back of his head. Such cooperation was not expected of a man dressed so well in the given environment. Rojas’s troops performed a quick, unattentive search, then cuffed their perpetrator and put a bag over his head. 

“Ex-cops,” Josh thought. Always so jutty, nervous, unsure of their stance on anything besides pack mentality and sole survival. Perhaps, the easiest force to control in a desperate situation. The only good thing about those pigs, though, is that they followed orders well. Always. Whoever had the leash also had the minds and loyalty. Usually, bribes with slightly bigger pay worked in terms of Codburgh. In their case? Running water, electricity, and a bowl of soup would be enough for some to buy them over.

They didn’t walk far. A mile at best. This means their camp was dangerously-close to the route which patrols guarded the most. Dirt, rubbish and shit sloshed around Josh’s luxurious boots. Bright-crimson in color, they were a part of his greater costume. Hair slicked to the side and side-parted accordingly, this Cobblepot certainly looked appropriate to his title. The Rockhopper’s glasses shone through the black bag, in spite of the light blocking it. Or, well… The lack thereof. His steps were heavy, despite the lithe appearance. And at last - the troupe arrived at Chief Rojas’s headquarters. 

The bag was roughly pulled off Josh’s head, and the shades fell from his nose of iron. They clinked against the floor, loudly and clearly so. That noise echoed throughout the old concert hall. One of the lenses shattered. This made the garish creature in captivity most upset, much to the chagrin of its captors. But oh, they don’t know what they’re dealing with just yet. Nor does the man placed onto a throne of crates:

Angel Rojas presented himself as quite the stout and portly man, contrasting with his henchmen. An old GCPD jacket wrapped tight around his whole torso, its rank, badge and patches scrapped, replaced with five-pointed stars of bright crimson. An obtuse, gray mustache made its way onto his pale face, and a glance of weathered, nut-brown eyes was all the Rockhopper got for now. They spoke of years of experience, and a crucial event which led to harsh and undeserved humiliation. Pain. Pain and emptiness, as well as rage and passion, combined together to form a facial expression most recognizable to Joshua Cobblepot: A desire for vengeance and justice, from one’s own point of view.

His army, despite its apparent size, wasn’t too impressive; unwashed, malnourished and desperate, every single unit looked on-edge and ready to bash him with a rifle’s butt. Cobblepot knew that full-well, so he acted nice and docile… At least for a time. However, it was time to be cheeky, as the time has come for the fatso to speak up. 

“Is this how you greet guests in this town, Chief?”

“Guests? No. Terrorists? Yes,” Rojas responded with a blank, stern face. 

Joshua leaned back into the armed Brigadiers’ legs, and squirmed against them with his coat’s plentiful fur: “Says who, Señor? We carry the same ideas, wear the same colors, and speak the same language. Tell me, what makes us so separate and hostile to one another?”

Rojas’s response was simple enough: “Money.”

The former PD Chief paused, and took a quick swig of his grimy coffee. In the meantime, the Rockhopper’s already worked through the wires in his coat and managed to get some semblance of a signal to call upon Fyodor when the time comes. 

“Do you have any idea what’s the bounty on your head, Joshua Fitzgerald Cobblepot?” Angel added then, and smirked soon after. 

“Eighty-six million, four hundred and fifty thousand United States Dollars,” Josh replied, just as smugly. “Sell me off to Interpol’s bloodhounds, though, and you’re just as fucked. Hand me over to some private schmuck, I’ll chew ‘em down, bones and all. Hand me over to the locals, and they’ll take you over anybody else. Suppose I’m this much of a loose cargo. Handled with care! Wasn’t I, boys?” 

A side-glance to each goulish fiend earned Josh an expected thwack of the rifle-butt. Cobblepot spit a molar out - well, here goes another one. His prosthetics glisten with gold, silver and malt, as a wide, bloodied grin sprawls up on his bony face. 

“You’ve nothing to offer to me,” Rojas continued, “No amount of money your punk ass has can grant me the redemption before Gordon _. _ ” 

“So you want to be restored as Police Chief? That’s all?” Josh replied, surprised, as he was dragged away by the Brigadiers, “What makes you  _ assume  _ he’ll pardon you?! You’ve seceded from Gotham, ye daft cow! You’ve an army!”

“So do you! But you’re dumb enough not to bring it with ya, Niño!” Angel bellowed back, then chortled aloud and muffled it out with another coffee swig. 

This displeased Josh all the more eloquently. His eyes hurt, his jaw did, too. Bloodied tears came through his tear ducts and painted his cheeks as they ran down. “ **Fucking cur!** ” He screamed, and broke out of the henchmen’s grips. He stood before the Chief, calmly, puffing long, hot streams of air out of his artificial nostrils. “Is this what Guerillas do nowadays? Sell onna their own out for pig feed?! You don’t  **get** to wear that red star, Rojas! Yer a pig! A pig!”

“Oh, but we are all ‘pigs’ here, Mr. Cobblepot. And you are about to be snapped in half by our tusks.”

Rojas was right. His army was a gathering of angry, desperate, cornered cops. A history of small robberies and muggings, occasional murders and mutilations cut them off from the rest of the world. They’re easily-distractible. Vulnerable. His close proximity to this clique’s leader made his plans go up north in an instant. Teeth grit tight, nose, eyes and lips doused in blood, Joshua sputtered out:

“Fyodor, now!”

And the little lights this half-rotten hamlet had were busted. The three hundred men resting, cooking, polishing their weapons, ended up in complete and utter darkness. All but one soldier of crimson had their eyes adjusted to it. The Rockhopper, in spite of his dry, small shape, was more agile and dexterous than the cluttering guardsmen & citizens.  **Crack!** \- and the right arm was free from the weakened cuffs. A thumb ligament was shattered, but pain only drove this lithe beast forward. Among all the confusion, the Chief remained seated, much to Joshua’s convenience:

A tug. A groan. Cobblepot’s fingers were put into Angel’s nostrils. His head tucked backward, a loose cuff pressed against his jugular. A single light was lit by the force yet unseen - a force so pallid and lithe it matched the local chuds quite perfectly. Long, ashen hair were a big mess, half of it tucked beneath an oversized top hat, marked with bent, dirt-ridden bunny ears: The March Hare put the spotlight onto him and his partner, as the people beneath pointed their rifles at them with wide eyes and hungry faces. 

“Y’know, I thought you chaps really were dedicated to makin’ this hood better,” Joshua said, “But I’m all the more convinced you’re ready to follow whoever does the bare minimum. Who supplies you with cheap canned food, grants water, gas, electricity once a week… Where’s the equality in this? Equality in poverty? Perhaps. But… Have you ever asked yourself; when was the last time I took a shower?” The clutter in the crowd made his words unintelligible, whilst Rojas struggled and screamed akin to a hog being slaughtered. 

After Fyodor gave him the rupor, Josh continued: “When was the last time I wasn’t cold, or sweltering under the rare bouts of sun I have in here? When did I last eat genuine, hot food? I’m not from here, but there’s one thing I can promise: You won’t have these questions on your mind in a  **week.** So it is your choice, ladies and gents - will you follow a stranger with bigger promises, or someone you know could sell you out for a return to the job and a fuckin’ payraise?”

More clutter ensued. Some lowered their weapons, while others’ triggers also wavered. Those who still held onto their loyalty to Chief Rojas also held onto their rifles, after all. “Stay put, stay put!” They screamed at the lost and frustrated crowd. 

“Silence!  **Silence!..** How do we know you are not lying?”

“Let the chief go!”

“He’s clearly lying!” 

“Yeah, fuck this guy! Whoever he is.”

“No, comrades, wait! He is kinda right about the whole shower and food thing.”

“Look at him, Pendejo! Y’wanna trust a fucking Cobblepot? They’ve nothing!”

“Well I wanna wash my ass! Rojas ain’t shit!”

“ **_You_ ** **ain’t shit, Guiterrez!** ”   
“Fuck you!”

“Fuck you, too!”

Oh, the beauty of chaos and anarchy. Rojas’s horrified face, shots being fired by guards and the pledges mauling them made Joshua smile, genuinely so. His smile didn’t have the usual sinister undertones. Genuine happiness engulfed and even overwhelmed this lithe and pallid agent of chaos. Fyodor looked  _ ecstatic,  _ and at last - shot a signal rocket into the tarp-ridden ceiling. With the mosh pit’s attention finally grabbed, Sokoloff, Cobblepot and Rojas were all seated, with the Rockhopper holding the latter hostage, still.

“I need your attention, ladies and gents,” Josh rose up and kicked Angel off of his throne, “I know you don’t feel like you must trust me right now. It is most understandable. All I am asking for, is a chance to help you out. To bring you to glory. You may not know who stands here, in your boss’s place. What his intentions are. But! On this crimson tie, you may be sure…” A hand gloved in blood-red landed on Joshua’s chest: “...That I, am on your side. Not Rojas’s, not Gordon’s, not Penguin’s, or anybody else’s. If you elect a new leader - you will have his trust, his resources, his faith in you and his cause alongside yours. For I am the Rockhopper - my noble blood means nothing. I’ve been thrice abandoned by those you claim to be responsible for your misfortunes, and I am equally eager to bring terror upon their homes. But first - there will be joy. There will be fulfillment, and… There will be light!”

The March Hare rose his hand, and the lamps previously shut down lit themselves up, brighter than ever. Tarp reflected this light onto the standing crowd. Sinks finally had running water, as it streamed down from the cranes previously open. Furthermore - those that were closer to the barred-off windows looked outside, and saw those lights present turn on and flicker in the growing twilight. Word spread through the desperate animals Joshua now tamed, and they rose their fists, knives, guns up in a united hoo-rah. Even Rojas was baffled by such a living wonder. And so they prayed, they prayed upon their new icon: The new Penguin of the People. 

All it took were three connected wires, eighty gallons of fresh water, and a poorly-written speech for the Rojas’ Brigade to turn. Soon enough, queues piled up for the now public showers, and without the higher-ups’ knowledge - the Narrows had just begun their revival under the new Head Bitch in Charge.


	14. Rockhopper Rising, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuing where we left off last time, Joshua Cobblepot is still desperately searching for allies. After defeating Chief Rojas, he uses the poorly-trained Brigadiers to venture down into the sewers, where the Butcher-Bitches live. After a rough scramble, it comes to Josh's attention that they're lead by Tigress - a rival of his and a compatriot from the times of Vlatavograd's catacombs. The situation is rough until Fyodor's ability to think in code comes in handy. 
> 
> Next, there is a tense and uneasy agreement between Two-Face, Black Mask, Emperor Penguin, and Penguin. No hurting one another until the Rockhopper's done for. Oswald Cobblepot also discovers his youngest adopted son - Martin - works for Ogilvy alongside the Ventriloquist. And speaking of Ignatius - he finally reveals his true motifs and feelings about his father. 
> 
> Finally, the Rockhopper strikes! No, actually. He does. And Oswald finally confirms that his nephew is, indeed, alive, but perhaps very, VERY unwell. He is startled by the harrowing attack, as Joshua's army seems to be much more prepared than expected. Perhaps this agreement will become a great necessity, after all...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My. God. The studies have been killing me. I didn't use the summer productively enough. So this is why I haven't posted ANYTHING with a capital A for four months. I am EXTREMELY sorry. I don't promise to publish new stuff regularly, but I am more-than determined to write again, after almost exactly four months of my hiatus.

_ @Park Row, Gotham City:  _

Cobblepot did not disappoint the Narrows’ expectations. Fulfilling his promises one by one, the Bowery’s residents got running water in two days, electricity - in three. Even though heating was still a luxury, there’s still food and guns to care for. Mind you, the Narrows weren’t nearly as autonomous as Codburgh - patrols occasionally swung through, armored and with serious gear at hand. An easy target, really, but there was no need to murder anyone yet. Joshua got used to his new domain fast, especially since his newfound army knew this part of Gotham, as well as the parts that went below its ground:

A safer way to travel at arms, the Burnley Butchers as they now called themselves repurposed the sewers as their primary means of transport. People, contraband, even weapons of mass destruction went through these cold, damp tunnels. Brigademen shivered and barfed into the underground river from the horrible amalgam of smells the sewers have provided. A mix of rancid peanuts and rotten flesh, Rockhopper was much less partial to it than the pallid Rabbit sticking close. Perhaps because of his iron ‘beak’ of a nose. Perhaps simply because he was already quite used to living in such decrepit spots. 

While Fyodor is afraid of the dark, it appears Joshua is thriving in it - it appears he isn’t tense from the dark alone; without his glasses, vermillion laser pointers and flashing lights of the rifles held by the Brigademen were much brighter than usual in his eyes. By this point, Cobblepot walked on autopilot, complaints and suggestions of his underlings a mere echo in the neverending tunnel. Red lights were quite reminiscent of torches. One memory, no - a flashback came to mind: Catacombs of Vlatavograd. 

Continuing to stroll through with one mortified expression, the pallid penguinling saw whatever came through on a twisted mind’s whim; here - a decrepit old man, starving and shriveling in the corner. Another, younger creature, pinned down to a wall by a handful of blades, bleeding out onto the pavement, awaiting relief from his grueling torment. With no light in sight, Joshua walked on bones and skin of troops withering away - rumors spoke of vampires roaming Vlatavograd’s harrowing underground. Naturally, being a prisoner of war didn’t underline any luxury, but what happened in Vlatava left scars much deeper than ones marking Josh’s face and back. This method of mental scarification proved to be rather useful to his captors’ amusement, but now that he was alone - he’s just as lost as he was in this endless vermillion labyrinth. 

“Thisch again?” Fyodor asked, with migraine pills in his hands. 

“No, I… I just…” Joshua stumbled against a loose brick, his eyes closed and weary. Thankfully, his companion was there to hold him. The brigadiers got visibly concerned, and stopped in their tracks to help their newfound leader. “...Yeah. It’s  _ this _ again, Fyodor, but we have to move-”

A firm, deep “no” followed suit. With the troops halted, White Rabbit took a pair of pills and shoved them into the Rockhopper’s mouth. The latter groaned, but a firm palm’s grasp forced him to chew through and swallow. Pure hatred blazed in Cobblepot’s eyes, and yet - Fyodor’s pale-blues brought sense back to him.

Not yet abandoning malice, he rose back to his feet and growled at the startled henchmen: “What the fuck are you looking at? Move!” And so the squad moved forth. Joshua felt more uneasy than his men did - mostly because of what the sewers reminded him of. But of course, it’s not like he must show weakness to these desperate, malnourished creatures. Not men - creatures. Since anything that serves a Cobblepot is, logically, beneath a Cobblepot in every possible way… Except for the bunny. Who he’s quite pissed by. Fyodor tried sucking up to Josh by wrapping his gangly hand across his waist, but instead got his fingers swatted away when they tried to ensnare his commander’s side. 

“Yowch!” he said, “Mmmkay, you’re shtill feischty…” 

“Damn right I am, what were you  _ doing _ with me a second ago?!”

“Shhh! Quiet! And, ehh,” Rabbit raised his brow, “Helping you? I think?”

Joshua shot daggers with his stare, but those quickly fell down, too: “You’re not helping me by embarrassing me in front of my  _ troops. _ I could have gotten back up, myself.”

“Butcha didn’t, did ya?”

“It doesn’t matter, dammit! I need to lead something but a gang of juvies who’ve just gotten off-shore!”

“Awww, birdie’sch tryna be the  _ reeeaaal _ leader now!” Fyodor’s cheeks sparkled with a blush in response to Cobblepot’s snarling, though thankfully - he didn’t scream any longer:

“Yes. Just… Shut. Up. And don’t do that again.”

“What again?”

Seething with both rage and embarrassment, Joshua’s cheeks were just as red and his face was twisted and turned. Except for the nose, of course: “Stop doing everyth- Nooo… Ugh… Let’s get back on track. The radar?”

“Clear an’ tidy. No schignal, though...”

“Good. Keep moving.”

Finally realizing how futile his attempts at calming the Rabbit were, the Rockhopper’s gaze focused back on the startled creatures, shuddering with every water drop and creak of the bricks beneath them. The entire brigade went on, and on, until at last - sunlight, akin to a spotlight, shone down on a grand opening - a knot between at least five different canals. That was their meeting point with one of the most notorious factions in the Narrows - the Butcher-Bitches and their head bitch in charge. Surprisingly enough, there isn’t much talk from the Brigadiers of who she is, but the Rockhopper’s used to dealing with an unknown enemy… Not his forces, however. 

A quiet  _ fwoosh _ later - one of the balaclava-ridden henchmen suddenly gagged and bent over. Both his hands clasped at the throat. Other crew members, horrified, watched as Guiterrez knelt and coughed up blood; an arrow went straight through his trachea. Hacking and gasping for air still, this sad display horrified Cobblepot’s untrained soldiers and sent bullets flying in all directions but the right ones. “Stop, fucking stop!” Joshua screamed and tried to lower the Garands down, but it was too late - a rain of arrows marked with orange feathers fell down upon them from every possible direction. Fire and light from above alike made them vulnerable targets. Joshua unsheathed his hammer, focusing his vision on the dark all the while; at least a dozen opponents. A dash in the dark was not approved by the White Rabbit, who hid behind a bunch of troops, as one by one they fell. 

Eventually, the shooting stopped, a remaining couple of scores of Josh’s folk dropped their weapons down and raised their hands up. Snarling at such a pathetic feat of might, Rockhopper trapped one shooter - a girl no bigger than an eight-grader - and repeatedly smashed her head against the wall, while the hammer flew into another target who aimed at him in the process. Cobblepot’s main tool went straight for the leg, as a gut-wrenching crunch of the bone and a blood-curdling scream forced the rest of the bowwomen to come out. 

Then, with targets in sight of both sides, a shootout between the Butchers and the Brigadiers continued. There was nowhere to cover from neither bullets nor arrows, so it quickly turned into a pointless endeavor, since most were left either wounded or tossed over the edge and into the sewers. Though, with Joshua and Fyodor - there was an advantage; the former’s hammer was now stuck in one of the heads, crushed like a coconut, while the latter sniffed around like a stray cat in search for an internet connection. 

“Stop,” a low voice of a young lady whispered right next to Rockhopper’s ear. While still savoring the gruesome display, he could feel the tip of an arrow pressing against the back of his head. At last, Josh dropped the hammer. Quite a mess left behind after him, really. Not like the sewers are the best spot for such serious trauma, either. “Rise,” the voice commanded, so Cobblepot rose back to his feet. “Turn around,” it commanded again, and the Butcher-Bitches kept their bows as high as the Brigadiers held their rifles. With the Bunny in the middle of all this, he… Was playing Solitaire like a complete old hag. Both sides were weirded out by the display, no less, but the twiggy technician barely gave a fuck. 

And right as he turned, Rockhopper’s eyes widened in surprise - before him stood a well-fit lass with blond hair and a bow too big for her delicate hands. All she had was a taut orange sweater, black cargo pants and boots to match in terms of clothing, besides a couple rolls of bandages wrapped around her arms, torso, and kneecaps. Over her face there is a mask, resembling the animal she’s taken the name of. In spite of it being covered, however, her mask’s scowl probably matched one beneath it. And those eyes… Like a feline’s. Not literally, no - a cat’s eye, shimmering and suppressing one’s own with power and unbridled anger. 

“Tigress?!” Joshua’s voice became shrill and unsexed for a moment.

“Yeah uhh… Are we gonna talk about who that bitch isch?” Fyodor’s hands rose on their own and waved to the scorned bounty hunter… Or former bounty hunter, for that matter. 

“No, let me start - who the fuck are  _ you,  _ clown?” Tigress got distracted. While she’s pointing at Fyodor with her arrow, Joshua broke out of the grip and mounted her with a loud squawk. Ready to swing his bloodied hammer against her head, Cobblepot didn’t take a blade pressing up against his groin into account. Both sides raised their arms again, but the White Rabbit rose his arms, instead: 

“Woah woah WOAH! How about we all put our guns away and fucking listen to one another, eh? Eh?” He said, waving his hands around and forcibly yanking the weapons out, “Look, missy, I have many names. Bunny will do for now. My business with you is that my man over there - yeah, that one twat with a big iron nose - wanted to come negotiate, but your striped arse decided to go full ham on our own grimy arses, instead! Bad move, Artemis, reeeaaaally bad move!”

Now, both Tigress and Rockhopper rose with surprised faces. Joshua’s was more appropriate to the fact Fyodor could actually, totally, talk normally. Artemis, however, jumped off the ledge and stepped up closer to the pasty, smug bastard.

“How do you know my name?”

“Oh, Artemis Crock - have you no idea Interpol’s database exists?”

But… You… You were clueless a second before!”

“I know, but I’m fast, and  _ very _ resourceful!”

“You don’t have anything ON you! H… How?”

“And that’s where you get all shock and awe,” Josh sputtered through bloodied lips and rose back to his feet, “Meet Fyodor,” - he waved his hand at both of them, - “He’s a cyborg, an old tech aficionado, and he can get access to your social security in less than three milliseconds.”

“Yup!” The Rabbit’s feet quickly paced on over to the two, examining Tigress with his glassy stare, “And speaking of that - are you  _ seriously  _ lacking this much manpower? Dragging schoolgirls and runts around sewers is not a good look for someone this regarded… Ah I’m kidding I’un give a SCHITT! No but seriously I can literally find you a whole fucking army or get you social security numbers, drivers’ licenses and IBANs of all the big cops in the area-mmmph!” 

Artemis’s hand clasped around Fyodor’s bony jaw. The latter promptly shut up, thus letting the two lovebirds speak… And yet they didn’t. With their troops left to meet up and squabble between themselves, both Cobblepot and Crock stared one another down, their gazes softening, until finally - they stowed their own weapons away.

Another long look down later, Josh mumbled out: “You’ve changed.”

“Since Vlatava? Yeah, yeah I did. And it looks like you still can’t get over it.”

“No - I didn’t expect to see  _ you  _ of all people on my ‘list’ to be neck-deep in shit like me. Did Mommy and Daddy finally let cat out the sack?”

“Mommy and Daddy are long gone, Cobblepot. All the better - can’t imagine dealing with  _ your _ family, though… The rich have their quirks, lots of ‘em.”

“Nor can I. But I’m here for family matters, anyway.”

Artemis chuckled. To his own surprise, Joshua chuckled alongside her. Fyodor outright wheeze-cackled. The whole group looked weirded out, especially while resting next to their comrades’ corpses.

“Hah! Yeah.”

“Yeah.” 

“So what is it you want from me, Birdy? Came lookin’ for what? I got nada.”

“Same situation,” Cobblepot moved back a little and took the blood-stained gloves off, tossing them into the sewers, “Barely been a week since I’ve come home. Took down your rival, by the way.”

“Does that... Mean you’ll wage war, still?”

“Not now, and not on you,” Joshua’s eyes trailed back to meet Artemis’s, while Fyodor laid himself on one of the cadavers in an attempt to find a signal. A long pause followed suit:

“...I’m here to kill my uncle and anyone who tries to take his fortune, slowly and very, very painfully.”

***

_ @Diamond District, Gotham City: _

Clock Tower struck midnight about a score of minutes ago. A new, dawnless day. Not that there’s much difference between dawn and dusk in Gotham nowadays - March is a month where it’s not quite bright, but not too dim, either. A constant fluctuation of twilights kept the city asleep throughout this cycle. And, as the rules of a certain famous game say - the City falls asleep, wakes up the Mafia:

Cobblepot came alone, if two bodyguards and Lark didn't count.  _ Oswald _ Cobblepot. His vacation’s return was signified with bigger stress and workload than a month ago. April’s coming soon, and so was actual spring, so the plush-looking fowlman had to put a respirator on. Otherwise, he’d sneeze left and right and provoke unwanted attention. Hell, being dressed in a simple morning suit is so unlike him, by this point. Growing older also meant growing prissier. Growing even more decadent, perhaps. Not a single drop of purple on him on his henchmen, besides the matching amethyst cufflinks. In fact, the real Penguin’s troupe dressed in matching morning suits of the highest quality, black ascots matching the sloppy squelching of their black boots against wet black asphalt. 

My, they didn’t have to drive long for this one. 

The Empyrean nestled into one of Gotham’s most lucrative spots. GCPD was just three blocks down, the new Iceberg - five. Clock Tower was just two blocks up and four to the left. Old Gotham’s certainly packed with the best places to lounge by… Or strike at. Right next to a dim lamp post, a new diod’s being installed as the Riddlerless Oswald strolls up to the fresh club’s entrance. Diamond District used to have its old lights entirely collagen. It gave the entire neighborhood a much colder, yet much more pristine look. The new ones were aggressively-orange - a cheaper, less long-lasting substitute. Slowly, but surely, orange replaced blue, until the only blue remaining was coming from the Iceberg up this close and personal to the Empyrean. How utterly disgraceful. 

Two masked guards had to stay. Lark, too. Oz felt more vulnerable than ever. Without his court, he’s going to be- Oh, and now they’re taking his weapons!  _ And _ his umbrella! “This is outrageous,” Cobblepot muttered through gritted teeth, the bouncers unresponsive to any of his protests. With his folk left waiting aside, Oswald finally stepped into his rival’s joint - just to see how he’s faring.

To say Ogilvy fared well would be an understatement.

Luxury, opulence, and sin. Those are the three aspects the Empyrean gave off right away. Faint smells of pollen and wet trash were suddenly replaced with more pungent ones, of rubber and burnt tobacco. Water streamed down the fountains as if it was liquid gold, outpouring from the orifices of gilded fountains depicting men and women struggling in their rather suggestive, open poses. The waiters and waitresses themselves were dressed rather skimpily, their oily skin just as shiny as the tight garbs, only occasionally obscuring Oswald’s view from their genitals. The place is honestly full of gold, and Oz wondered whether it was all fake and why nobody stole some of those fancy gilded platters by now. 

Staff’s behavior was… Inappropriate, even by the Iceberg’s standards. Some bellboys and bellgirls took the courage to rest on their clients’ laps, drop a pill or two into their drink out in the open, and if they didn’t have one - offer something stronger and spicier instead of the popular whiskey sours or champagnes. There was this one particular decrepit fat vulture resting among the crowd… No, in fact, there were plenty of prominent faces, but Rupert Thorne’s stuck-up pasty mug is hard to forget. There he is, beet-red in the face, being ogled and manhandled by two identically-gimpish waiters as he spills wine over his own shirt. 

It’s hard not to feel embarrassed, but… Ozzy wasn’t. As interesting as the main parlor may be, he’s not here for  _ these _ kinds of pleasantries. Ah, if only they could be dubbed that! He’s meeting up with the man who once stole his empire, who managed to make the county jail his bitch, and who couldn’t even put a lift in his god-damn club. Cobblepot’s left leg was sore by the half of it, and the fuzzy carpet didn’t help much with the slipperiness of his shoes on the stairs. One of the servicemen’s smiling zipper-mouth sparkled across his dulled-down eyes, then - his hand took a grasp of Oswald’s wrist. He didn’t ask for help, but won’t deny it, either. Without his umbrella, it’s hard for the fowlman to make it up such a long-ass flight of stairs by now, but finally - he’s here. The two matching bouncers in their all-black suits with golden brooches in ties’ stead opened the door, and... 

“Sionis?!”

Indeed, a white pinstripe suit and an opaque hood of black leather were the first things Penguin saw in Emperor Penguin’s office. Not its size, not its riches, not a grandiose condor resting on the rafters, not Harvey Dent playing with his coin, and most certainly not the Empyrean’s host. Black Mask looked rather shocked, himself, as expressive as he could be with a melted face and a masque put over it. Hell, he nearly popped a gasket while turning to Ogilvy, reaching for the non-existent gun: “Who the  **fuck** , invited him here?” he said. 

“I did,” Ignatius replied in a calm, steady tone, “As much as you detest one another, Roman, there are matters we have to discuss.”

“What business do you, d-do  _ we _ , have to have with…” Sionis leaned a little closer, lowering his tone and suspiciously glancing back at Cobblepot: “...That you fuckin’ brought us together for the sole purpose of whacking?!”

“Personally, I’ve nothing against Oswald,” Harvey stepped in, “We  _ are _ rivals, but we haven’t organized this meeting to get rid of him… You, Oswald, sorry-  **Damn right. Rommy - fuck you gotta front with the Bird for if there’s a walkin’ disaster cloggin’ up the Narrows?** ” Harv added, all the while.

“This- This treacherous, fffucking bitch,” Roman audibly spoke through gritted teeth, “Scarred me for life. What if I told you, Dent, “ooh, let’s invite Sal Maroni over for a picnic ‘cause we have our differences but now we gotsta be friends ‘cause there’s some odd-ass motherfucker up in the Narrows that same Sal fucking Maroni failed to raise!” Huh? Huh?!”

“Oh calm the fuck down! I’m not too glad seeing ya, either,” Oz finally stepped forth, with a heavy trudge and an evident limp. He sat himself at the round table’s opposite corner, observing the tense faces of the Emperor’s Court with his unblinking eyes. Iggy’s visibly disappointed in his allies, so Cobblepot added some salt to the wound: “Real peachy team, by the way. M’ sure your club’s gonna keep up an’ grow with the constant clucking o’  _ this _ chicken.”

“Are you done?” Ogilvy asked, just as unbothered. 

“Yes. Yes, I’m done. But if this fucker’s staying ‘ere, he gotsta look at what he’s done. Now hold on...” 

There are many deeds Oswald regrets, still. Catalyzing a new chapter of the old rivalry between Cobblepots and Sionises, is one such deed. Roman pulled the mask off his head, revealing nothing but a scorched, charcoal skull of a face to the audience of three. Barely able to blink or move his lips, the buttons of russet-brown eyes and pearl-white teeth were the only remnants of a beauty that once represented Janus Cosmetics. Oz was the one that sabotaged it. Most of the actors, makeup gurus, and plain consumers died from chemical burns the next day, but not Roman Sionis. And damn did Oswald regret this. For all the wrong reasons.

While Sionis Stared Cobblepot in the eye, Papa Penguin stared at the culprit of this strange meeting. Harvey was visibly nervous, though his other side waved dismissively at all the tense atmosphere in the room. Ignatius, admiring the silence for a couple more seconds, broke it with his hands clasped:

“So.”

“So?” Oswald asked.

“I thought you’d have to say something, first,” Iggy continued, “After all, it is your letter I intercepted.”

“Aye.”

“Aye,” the Court added. 

“But,” Ogilvy said, “That is not the point of this conversation. Gentlemen. We may disagree on most aspects, if not all of them. And we are ready to tear the tongues out of one another’s throats should one of us be brash enough. However, in contemporary conditions, we must not allow our personal grudges to guide our actions in the face of a common threat. We already know that a swiftly growing army in the Narrows could pose a much greater threat than we could possibly imagine. Sure, the Bat will arrive there soon enough, but the damage done before that could cost us fortunes. Properties. Lives.”

“ **Get to the point!** ” Oswald and Harv had a mutual response to Ignatius’s rambling.

“Patience, gentlemen. Especially you,  _ Penguin, _ ” he continued once more, “...I’ll grant you the  _ liberty  _ of not embarrassing yourselves with empty promises and pleas for peace - that has already been decided; I brought you, Sionis, and Dent here to proclaim an unofficial ceasefire. For the sake of our mutual survival in… Current circumstances, let’s dub it so. The conditions have also been decided prior to your input; we simply do not touch one another, and if need be - arrive at a place of an attack coming from you-know-who. Police matters are left to deal with individually. So are financial, civil, and operational matters.”

“So what you are proposing is, in essence, a confederation…” Oz, visibly annoyed, produced a single slow blink in response thereafter, “...Of people. I am still. Enemies with.”

A single, slow nod from Ogilvy followed suit: “In essence - yes. Just so the Rockhopper doesn’t get all the lucrative spots and murders us while we are divided. Thumb, Tack, every victim of his shouldn’t be wasted and forgotten.”

“You’re not doing this for them, are you?” Oswald’s face twisted into one of pure disgust by now, “You’re only worried about your cash, and your golden statues, and your vultures. Oh, oh!  _ And  _ your cheap amalgam of Pandora’s Box and  **my** joint. Saving your ass is none of my priorities, Ogilvy. Nor should you two be here selling your own asses out to him. But just ‘cause I saw what the Rockhopper did by now - I’ll take it. For now.”

“Mm! Splendid!” 

“God fucking damn it-”

“Hell yeah! Thank you so much for not making it any harder, Ozzy!”

“ **Yeah, I guess. Fuckin’ A for not killin’ one another in a five-minute span.** ”

At this moment, the Ventriloquist’s ditzy footsteps interrupted the cheer. Arnie brought Sauvignon Rouge to the table once given a go-ahead by his new boss. Martin is there, too, shyly hiding behind the tubby puppeteer’s back. That’s the only time Oswald smiled throughout this meeting, and Martin smiled back. Warm thoughts enveloped Cobblepot’s head, if only for a moment. Ogilvy’s speaking again. Thasius, his pet condor, flew down and landed on his fur-laden shoulder. He’s looking for cured meat in the bowl, and found some quite soon. “How remarkable,” Oswald thought. 

“Why so bitter, though?” Iggy said, “Have you been adding angostura into your Martinis like your pet cop, by any chance?”

“I’m not your friend, Ignatius. Spare me the pleasantries,” Cobblepot’s disgust never wavered. He never touched his glass, and waved Wesker off dismissively.

“Well then,” Ogilvy was taken aback by Ozzy’s demeanor, “I’m not asking for that, either, but you could have at least had the decency to respond appropriately and get your own puns out at me. Gentlemen - I will need Mr. Cobblepot for a more private conversation. You’re dismissed, thank you for your time.” 

Roman put his mask back on and quickly got out of his chair, never shoving it back behind the table, and stormed out of Ogilvy’s office as fast as he could. Harvey, on the other hand, shook hands with Oswald, and said proper goodbyes. Even Harv behaved accordingly in the old bird’s presence. Emperor Penguin remained seated, in the meantime, as Thasius flew back up. He undid his orange cravat, and the top button of his charcoal shirt. After serving the wine, Wesker first took it away, then came back with a tub, a razor, a towel, and some shaving cream. 

“Leave it aside for now, Arnold. You’re doing great, thank you,” Iggy’s demeanor suddenly became sweet, and the Ventriloquist silently left the room. “Martin, chum - you, too. After you do, please attend to my schedule for the weekend. I will attend a gala at the Iceberg, preferably as late as you can book it.”

The mute boy nodded quite eagerly and pit-patted away alongside Arnold. Now, Penguin Proper and Emperor Penguin were left alone. At last. “Well, speaking of that gala,” Oswald said, “I will have to be going pretty soon-”

Ogilvy’s hand  **slammed** against the table, spilling the wine over from both their glasses. His cold stare or calm face never changed, but his right hand looked very… Blue, and its black nails scratched against the table’s surface. This created a harrowing, ear-piercing sound even Oz was barely able to withstand. 

“I have not finished.”

Iggy’s other hand grabbed at the wine glass, and simply held it there: “I believe you already know this is a temporary agreement. For what you did, “Father”, you won’t get a swift death… After I deal with this Rockhopper figure, of course. You haven’t deserved it in my eye. Instead, I will find you. I will snatch you. I will make sure you  _ never _ see the light of day again. You will be cooked. Cured. Slowly. Limb, by limb. You will watch as I tease your nerve endings. Of what will be left of you by now, anyway. You will, quite possibly, be stuffed with raisins before that. And oh, you will be fed  _ plenty. _ I’ll gouge your eyes out, last. Then, with your heart still beating, I’ll hold a feast. With the most glorious nyotaimori Gotham City shall ever witness. Kirk, James, Eduardo, Lazlo - perhaps even Jonathan will attend. And then, as I eat your raw heart… Then. Only then, I will accept your surrender and apologies. But for now, enjoy your last days! I love my foie gras on the  _ fattest _ end~”

It appears Oswald has discovered a whole new level of wrong for himself. Shakily rising from his chair, the cheeks of his turned from a healthy red to a nauseous green as Ignatius’s little speech concluded. There was no limp anymore - everything felt numb. Even the gorgeous music in the parlor was a distant echo to him as he stepped down the stairs. Slowly. Everything appears to be slow, now. That is, until masked men, not the waiters, stormed into the parlor of perversions, and unsheathed their AKs. 

Clutter ensued with the first shots fired. Ragged goons with their ragged masks, ragged rifles and ragged red cloaks came from every direction: the entrance, the ceiling, the windows, the entrance, the back entrances, and so on. The crowd had no place to disperse to, so chaotic movement in every side followed soon after. Utilizing chaos to his advantage, Oswald crawled across the floor while the guests and the staff members were shot down, eventually reaching for his umbrella… 

A hammer’s sharper side landed quite close to his arm. It did so from above. Not giving it much thought, Oz rolled over from the wardrobe counter and landed a twelve-gauge straight in one of the Brigadiers’ spine. The figure that lashed out at him, however, was not cloaked. Sunglasses with crimson lenses obscured his sight, and a respirator over his face hid it away, as well. The Rockhopper held a submachine gun up and prepared to shoot, launching at least seven bullets at Cobblepot. He didn’t duck, but was instead saved by Martin and Penny, who rushed through the entrance as everybody else was going out. Ozzy’s vision was blurry. The tinnitus from loud gunshots became all the louder. In chaos, he could see Rupert Thorne, Arnold Wesker, and most notably - Mr. Dunlow, being dragged away by the hooded insurgents. 

Bold as he was, the attack’s initiator jumped high and mighty over the counter while Ogilvy defended himself. Rockhopper lurched at Oswald, but the old bird screamed directly at him, startling him for a second. The umbrella’s blade unsheathed itself. Falling forward, hammer and gun in hand, Oz used both his hands to push the blade up to its hilt, right into the bastard’s liver. The sudden sucker punch made the shades fly off, and the mask didn’t hold itself too well, either. Dead silence amid the attack prompted a stare between the two of them. Oswald’s ice-blues meeting the cognac-colored peepers of… 

“Joshua?”

There. Oswald Cobblepot received his confirmation. Joshua Cobblepot is alive. If his sad state can even be called that. Red in the face and visibly straining, the Rockhopper picked his broken glasses up and hid his bleeding eyes away. Then, as he stepped away from the blade, Oswald didn’t bother stabbing him a second time. Sharing a look with him for another moment, Joshua waddled off and jumped out of the panoramic window quite close to the entrance. With their commander’s retreat, the Brigadiers moved out of the club, as well. A pool of blood meshed in with gold. The night was over before it could begin.


	15. Butchers of Burnley, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, Ethan can be seen working on more gimmicks of his, as well as conducting mass surveillance across Gotham for reasons yet unknown, but most probably blackmail. At his secret hideout, he meets the Mad Hatter, who has an interesting proposal at hand but does weird Blacksun out a considerable amount. Eventually, they come to an agreement, and a new team might possibly enter the dumpsterfire of a Cobblepot civil war. 
> 
> Next, Oswald everybody else from the Loyalists and the Emperor's Court are trying to cope with a massive terrorist attack conducted by Joshua and the Brigadiers. (An obligatory Batman cameo happens) Batman is on the scene, too, softly interrogating the tired and traumatized birdman. All Oswald can share is the details about Joshua's childhood, as well as some insight from Nygma, but he's clearly not doing too well.
> 
> Finally, the Rockhopper tortures Rupert Thorne for no particular reason but his money, and his team does not look too content with it. In the meantime, the Narrows are completely seized by his forces. Joshua and Artemis have a long talk about one another's loyalty, then a cheeky conversation with Ogilvy, and finally - Fyodor finally, FINALLY does something. Something weird.

_@Warehouse District, Gotham City:_

A loud “WOOOOO!-” rang out across one of the supposedly-empty lots. Ethan spun in a stolen (and quite filthy) office chair, his spindly legs dangling in the air while the ninth can of Five-Hour Energy™ spilled itself across the concrete floor. Although spring has come on the calendar, it’s still plenty cold inside. No wonder why he’s got both his gloves and jacket on. Oh, that… It’s purple. Looks like Joker’s stuff. Quite a fun thing, indeed. And its wearer has just as many scars! Except those burn marks are not pasty - they are ones of disgusting, overgrown flesh.

At times, this particular brand of Cobblepot couldn’t bring himself up to a mirror. Half a nose missing, wide, barely-blinking eyes, dry lips, and lumps of hair going missing. Makeup can always fix this, and he’s learnt how to do it quite well, but the phantom pain is still there. But now is not the time to think of it! As predicted, the other Cobblepot is blowing shit up while Papa Cobblepot is watching shit being blown up. Quite a great show - better than what’s on image boards nowadays, anyway. 

There was actual pain, too. Flesh is weak, for it can tear itself apart at any swift gesture. That’s exactly what happened to the left calf just now. Drawing blood from the little tear, Ethan’s mood changed quickly from celebration to frustration and alertness. Formerly Blacksun reached for the tissues and the band-aids, though, a rogue hand has given it to him.

Ethan gasped and stumbled aside, hurting himself more. Nevertheless, he took the necessary tools into his hands and took a good, long stare into the stranger’s glassy eyes: He had a matching fake smile, with buck-teeth possibly too big to fit in the mouth behind closed lips. A fancy dress of sorts is there, too. Most notably a big, dumb-looking top hat with the price tag still on. Some nice hair on him, though - the blonds are matching. That’s right. The stranger in front of him was an infamous, completely non-lucid Arkhamite - the Mad Hatter. 

“G’day!” the Hatter said.

“Step away,” Ethan replied. “What are you doing in my hideout?”

“Oh, but I thought it’s _my_ hideout! Tee-hee, it appears our broker decided to cause trouble… Alas, I am not here for that purpose!”

“Then why are you here? I’m busy, Tetch,” Cobblepot murmured rather dismissively at Jervis. He’s bothered for a hot second with the Hatter’s presence, but since his eyes are taking close watch of his hands - Blacksun’s pretty much safe. 

One long silence followed up. Besides droplets of water hitting the floor and tape ripping, that is. Yet another sturdy bandage - many more put onto the naked torso of Ethan’s, not counting the coat. 

“Blimey, you’re frail!” Tetch continued with an awkwardly-shrill tone, “Mmm… So! The best way we could sort out a landlord issue iiiiiiis by a rock-paper-scissors match! No, wait, that’s… Actually no, chum, scrap that one. Good thing is, I took this lot for free! Isn’t that just peachy?”

Oh. _Oh._ Now Ethan’s confused. He’s not here to fight, or to deliver anything important. “What… Exactly do you want?” He said.

“That… Is a good question!” Hatter replied in that same jeery tone. “What do I want, what do I want,” he kept muttering out loud while pacing around the warehouse with his teensy little feet. Ethan had no time for this - there’s recording and backlogging to be done, still. Suddenly, Jervis’s hand landed on his shoulder, which prompted a cold turn of the neck from Cobblepot’s side. 

Tetch’s peepers gleamed with great interest, the reflection of Ethan’s visible in their unmeasurable void: “Say, you want to be one of this wicked town’s biggest information brokers, eh? ‘Ave you received any clients yet, chap?”

“Well-” 

“If not, I’ll be your first!” Hatter interrupted Blacksun, who appeared to be more upset than pleased with his presence. As expected. Regardless of Cobblepot’s mood, the elusive haberdasher pulled one hefty folder out of his oversized green greatcoat. Hell, if he gave it a bit more leverage, it would have broken the table on which some of the spare parts rested. A handful of photographs scattered out across it - with a particularly-lithe albino depicted on all of them. 

“Here’s my order, info-chap: I am looking for _this_ little fellow right here. To try and get him back into my grasp. After all, the best apprentices tend to become rather selfish, eheh-”

“He’s your apprentice?” Ethan asked with mellow disinterest, “Yeah. I know where he might be, Tetch. What else do you want?”

“U-Uhm… A former one, yes! _Though he will be, h-he must be, post-haste-_ Riiight. That is not required, but. Could you try and _improve_ my design, if you please? My ah, hands have become much less steady since I started drinking medicine and stopped drinking tea… That’s not frabjous at all.”

“And what will I get in return?” That same dismissive tone oozed off of Blacksun. 

“Well…” The haberdasher’s ever-present grin spread out wider and became much more sinister. In Ethan’s eye, at least. The burnt tech-whiz turned his face away from Jervis’s. Naturally, it wore him out and gave him the shivers, and shivers are not good for his fragile skin. The fact he was seen so vulnerable is already driving him nuts- No, the fact he was _seen_ is already enough to freak him out. And yet, he launches the process of backlogging the surveillance footage from the last twenty-four hours, leaving the Hatter to his own devices. Mistakenly so. 

“I didn’t hear an offer, Tetch. Either spit it or get out of my office,” a note of impatience could be heard in Cobblepot’s voice now. But oh, Jervis was not lucid at all, and rather sing-songy again: “I’ll get you the main competitooooors!~ Now, look. There’s Calculator, then the Bookworm, and most notably - Cluemaster. Both the vigilantes and the rogues go to those chaps _alllll_ the time!” 

Unsheathing his price tags and emitting some metallic shingle with them, the Hatter took the spare seat and sat up with his legs resting on the edge of the seat: “I could take those in, bring them over, and you can extract whatever information you desire. I’m fairly certain they’ve something to say about every person in Gotham… And if you agree - you can use my services on not just them, as well, I-I reckon!”

Silent and resting with a brick-like face, the quiet observer of the Cobblepot family gestured with his hand; to upgrade the cards, he ought to have one. Preferably all three that the child-sized fop is playing around with. A little startled by the gesture, Jervis eventually handed his toys over in order for the half-charred infonugget to observe his work. Visibly nervous, the look on Tetch’s face doesn’t let Ethan work properly. He swung back to his workspace, letting the four different PCs do their thing as fast as they could, then put one of the cards onto the rack and unscrewed the flexible back of it. With his monocle on, Cobblepot could see all the intricacies and minute details of the Hatter’s pretty price tags. 

“Radiowaves,” Ethan said monotonously, “Clever. And cute-”

“Ohh yes! Those are real beauts to use! Granted, you have to maintain the same frequency over and over again for a long period of time, a-and that can be exhausting, eheh~”

Ethan’s startled huff made Jervis shut up. Finally: “Don’t interrupt me. Ever.” Now he could examine these things properly. “Moving on - I can see the imperfections. Way too many of them to use safely on the public. Like I expected, you used too many traces for one function in your… Gimmick. It can be done much easier. Wow, those plates sure are oldschool, man.”

“Ahh, well, I’m pretty oldschool, as you can see,” Jervis’s hands looked a little shaky. Understandable. And, judging by Ethan’s fascination, it appears there will be a small overhaul needed. 

“Oh-kaaay,” he said, “I think we’re going to work together just fine, Mr. Tetch! I like your price, you know what you’re getting, and you’re not too annoying while you’re medicated. I saw Dr. Arkham’s report the other day - I could get you medicine, as well?”

“Awwh, really?” Jervis looks quite enamored by now, “Well then! This is going better than I imagined! Though, I also think…”

“You think what?”

“...I think our goals are _pretty darn_ similar, mate. I wish no harm upon the White Rabbit, but I want him back. And it appears you wish no harm on your family, but you also want to feel like a part of it again. Let’s earn it back, whether they want it or not!”

And now, with the finished backlogs, more locations could be pinpointed on the map. It appears Ethan’s hideout has gotten progressively more fancy as the first paycheck from GCPD and allowance from Q-Core came in. There were… Way too many monitors, however. It made Jervis kinda freak out deep within himself, but for the most part? He’s fascinated. Cobblepot does take his time to think, though. No one would be blind or dumb enough to trust their deepest secrets to a known weirdo and an infamous hypnotist. But since they both spilt their beans over to one another… It looks like a partnership. And not even a shaky one. 

Ethan extended his hand to Jervis, and the latter shook it overenthusiastically. Hell, even his glove came off to do so! There might be another crack, so Tetch gets some of Cobblepot’s blood on the innards of his palm. No biggie - the Band-Aids are there, anyway. And, as the machines worked, the coolers revved, and the cold droplets hit the floor once again, the targets were clear from this point on:

“You get the Calculator, I get the Bunny-”

“And Papa Penguin.”

“-And Papa Penguin, yes.”

“I repair your cards, you repair my comps. Deal?”

“Deal of course, Mister Blacksun~”

“Then - we share the same home, Mister Hatter~”

***

_@Diamond District, Gotham City:_

Thirty-six bodybags. Thirty six dead men. That’s not counting at least fifty missing and about a hundred wounded. Maybe they weren’t innocent. They could be the worst pieces of crap in the entire neighborhood, country, to hell - the world. But Oswald saw how twisted and blown-up their bodies were before their remnants were scraped off into these black bags. The memories from a police massacre next to Capetown resurfaced. Nothing but tinnitus in his ears. And flashing images of blood, faint smell of gunpowder, and his _face._ His nephew’s face before his eyes. Straining. Panicking. Angry. 

Hurt.

Cobblepot’s head rested on Nygma’s, while Penny rubbed his back through his overcoat’s thick layer of fluff. Oswald is not there. He can’t even snap out of it as he sees the bigger picture: Ogilvy’s shaken up, as well. He’s drinking pills, of some kind, he can’t quite remember. Martin rests on the recently-cleaned staircase, sketching down the goons’ faces for cops with one hand and signing to another boy with the other. That other boy is Robin, it seems. Same clothes, same demeanor. Oh, they seem to be getting along just fine! Moving on - it looks like the entire GCPD’s at the crime scene. Gordons, both Jim and Barbs, are hitting someone up. Probably the Feds, or Interpol, or both. One fresh uniform is carrying the corpsehuggers’ heavy stuff for them. He looks healthy. Healthier than him right now. He looks like Ethan. A lot. Oh, Bullock’s taking his meds, too. He’s doing much better ever since he quit going to Penny. It didn’t work out for them, anyway. Sometimes, to be happy - all a man needs is a shrink and a dubious mob boss. 

And then there’s him. The elusive shadow that becomes bolder at night. The reason so many are shaken up, and many others keep going. The exhausted, old knight of a neverending crusade: _Batman._ No, no - he didn’t bulk up. He kept his shape almost the same, but his suit, on the other hand - it made Batman wider because of all the heavy armor. Heavier than Oswald remembers, as well. At least that chiseled jawline wasn’t obscured by anything but a rough stubble of sorts. And of course - it had to be all-black, with the Bat-symbol shining bright with a blinding collagen-white. How repulsive… Yet menacing. 

Batman stood over the three of them, brooding, silent. He wishes to speak, so Eddie shakes Ozzy up alongside Penny, who promptly leaves to speak to Gordon directly. 

“I reckon, you’re taking your time to gloat again, Bats. Deep within, you _want_ to laugh, and mock me for failing and still trying,” Oz spat out, acid and blight oozing off his teeth. 

Batman’s eyes visibly squinted: “No. I’m not here for that. I’m here to help others cope with what happened. No matter what you were doing here prior, it’s not my priority right now: Tell me all you know about Joshua Cobblepot. His background, his skills, his face-”

“You already know what his fuckin’ face looks like!-”

“Shh, babe,” the Riddler stepped in, grabbing onto Oswald’s shoulder tighter. “What he means is that there are leaked Interpol photos, but Oz didn’t wish to believe those were real until about two hours ago.”

“Noted,” Batman replied, “Continue, Penguin.”

“That’s… That’s all I know of.” Oswald took a deep breath, now. This was just as hard for him as it was for everybody else, so he had to tell the truth and gather himself up. That he did: 

“We rarely saw one another, and whenever he _was_ here, he was busy with Jason and Olga! They’re his parents, I mean. There’s this one time they had no money and we celebrated his Bar-Mitzvah, the one that Harley ruined. After this, everything becomes rather… Vague. But I knew he was pampered, to a degree, and that he did want to, uhm. Impress me with something, I guess?”

“And what did he do in the RAF?”

“Tried to impress me, too. I think,” Cobblepot paused, letting Nygma interrupt him again: 

“You and I probably saw the stats, as well, Batman. Point is - he finished as one of the most prospective cadets there, and was sent to Vlatava right after graduating. His plane was shot down during a scouting operation over Vlatavograd, and then - nobody knows what happened. It’s like, you know, a Balkan Bermuda Triangle. Nothing goes in, and nothing goes out! A great riddle, this whole mess is. Though, judging by the way he looks, they didn’t do anything good to his body or brains, eheh-heh…”

“Hmm…” Now Batman’s displeased. He craned his head over to observe Robin, and the boy right next to him. “...Nothing new from you two. But I still think you two should know I’m-”

“You’re going to try and stop him,” Oz pulled himself back in, “Don’t bother. I forgot to mention he’s stubborn as all hell, so if you try and take over - more people will die. We match each other in that we don’t want any more lives on our backs. Let the cops and others, anyone BUT you handle the matter… Please.”

“I make no promises, Cobblepot. Nor do I take requests, especially from the likes of you. And you, Nygma - I’ll be watching you two closely. Though, if I get any relevant news on Joshua,” Bats stopped in his tracks and unveiled a grappling gun: “You’ll know it by then. I can’t promise I can take him out of the Narrows alive. Both of us know the risks.”

Oswald and Edward were silent again. The former barely contained his panic attack, shaking in his seat and spilling hot tea over his dress pants. He wanted to see nothing, do nothing with the kinds of people he buried himself into. Not anymore. Joshua, oh Joshua… 

“B-Bats. Bats!” He squawked, and the Dark Knight turned his head over. 

“You, uhm. You know what it’s like to have a relative come back from the dead, don’t you?”

He didn’t respond. He simply flew up like he usually does, with Gordon missing his tracks and Martin fascinated with the shadowy display. And yet, while flying upward, it echoed:

“I do, Cobblepot. And I understand you more than you think.”

***

_@Sprang Bridge, Gotham City:_

Pushing and clutter never ceases in this part of town. Not like it was quiet before, but now? Damn, that’s a lot of gunfire! Previously, the Narrows smelled and looked like a cesspit - now they are a warzone. Explosions of stun grenades weren’t too nearby, but nearing the Rockhopper’s office, for certain. Screaming and swearing came from the rafters, and the barricades built out of car tires, burning, their noxious black flame oozing onto the streets with the wind’s whims. The Blue Boys in black and cyan, armored to the teeth, couldn’t push through a group of rebels that seized more than eighty blocks of the Narrows, Otisburg, Crime Alley and Burnley by this point. 

Joshua made GCPD’s Northern Precinct his headquarters, with former Chief Rojas’s body still impaled on its fancy spire, and the Brigadiers’ black-and-red flag wafting over the bloodied dome. Right by the shore, stakes upon stakes with traitors and enemies’ heads lined up against the muddy waters of Sprang River, warning the passing Coast Guard of who exactly owns this place now. The clutter is there, too; the promised heat, water, and electricity did return to the Narrows, but only from the local sources. Resources are sparse, yet no one is seen complaining… Besides the higher-ups, of course. And the clutter - the clutter is there, too. A mess. A mess everywhere.

“K- **Krrk-k** ,” The sound of bone crunching under metal was supplemented with a blood-curdling scream of Rupert Thorne. Strapped to a chair, with his mouth forced open, a cough followed soon after - the captive’s choking on his own teeth, blood, and saliva. Another strike of the hammer directly against the left corner of his lip leaves it bleeding, too, exposed nerve endings gnawing directly at the gray matter. There was no mouth to scream with anymore - just chunks of flesh and bone dribbling onto the fancy grey shirt and emerald-green tie. Sure, Thorne’s a bastard, and a sleaze - but holy hell did Fyodor turn his back quick at the sight of it when he and Tigress finally entered the interrogation room. 

“...Holy schitt, Joshy. I think ya worked on him a bit too much.”

Cobblepot turned to face the White Rabbit, all while rubbing white powder into his lips. Then, he wiped his face with a rolled-up sleeve of his shirt, though its fabric turned to crimson instead of white for the most part, anyway. Crazed, dazed gaze met Fyodor’s, then Arty’s. 

“H-He… Th-This bastard,” a shaky arm pointed at the now unconscious Thorne, “Some of these bastards must know what kind of shit Ogilvy has, what kinda shit they have, anything. We need his fucking money, but the crooked twat would rather b-blow it all on his fucking bitch of a dentist.”

“Yeah, ehhmm… Anywaysch, you wanted to call Ogilvy, didja not?” The Bunny’s attempt at changing the topic resulted in Josh dropping the hammer, but getting the knife, instead. 

“You know what? Let’s call him right now, why won’t we?”

“Cause you’re in the middle of torturing a mob boss for no reason?” Tigress added, “Well… There are actually tons of reasons why you should torture Robert Thorne of all people, but hey - you won’t get the shit you want out of him.”

In the meantime, Cobblepot cut down the tape and let the sleazy captive fall square onto his face. Thorne mumbled something out, but all that came out were gargles and bubbles from the demolished mouth cavity. With his tongue pulled out, Joshua planted Rup onto a table filled with papers, banknotes, and other important documents. This left a fresh print of blood on all those, but most importantly - that bowie knife in his hand went right into his tongue, forcing another shrill scream out of him. 

The Rockhopper hissed into his ear: “I know you hobnob with both Penguin and Ogilvy, y’waste of breath. And I know you put a solid amount of gold into both their piggybanks. Since I already have access to all your offshore funds, all you have to do before I pull you down to the eighth circle of hell is, is tell me **where, the fuck, their vaults, ARE!** ”

“Gheeh meh a faff… Faffuhr…” The wavy, quiet voice of Thorne was pointless to use by now, so instead he pointed to the pen idly resting below the table. While Fyodor’s booting his systems and firewalls up, Artemis grabs the pen and carefully hands it into Rupert’s palm. And there he is, barely conscious, sketching the map and writing things down. Slowly, but surely. 

“Isn’t it a bit too much?” Tigress asked, “Even for a piece of shit like him?”

This did not please the Rockhopper. Twisting the blade exactly ninety degrees, the tongue of Thorne’s was cut off completely, and he fell down to the floor with a pained, shocked wail. “You didn’t say it was “too much” when I had a constant splitting headache,” Josh said, “Nor did you say it was “too much” when his dog bit off my nose. Nor when I slept in my own shit, collared and muzzled like a dog by his underlings. Nor when I escaped, and when I escaped again, nor when the torture repeated one day after the other. For three years, you stood next to him. So what changed, Artemis Crock?” 

This… Startled Tigress. The Rockhopper walked up closer, all the while: “Are you going to say that “you’ve changed!” and that “you regret it all!” and that “you’ll help me now” without ditching me at the first lucrative offer? Let’s face it, you’re here only because of my money… I can see it in your eyes, bitch. Don’t you _dare_ fucking lie to me.”

“Well, actually - I’m not here because of you or your money, Cobblepot,” Arty’s hand was now on his shoulder, “I was with Vertigo because he offered me expertise. My dad’s in the ditch alongside yours, remember?”

“So you went looking for a fucking father figure?!”

“Fuck yeah I did! And let me tell you, under him, and under Merlyn - I became one of the best mercenaries there is. I didn’t care for you or anyone else beneath the castle, you dumb, edgy turkey! I wanted to become proficient, to become a real survivalist, and…”

“...And then you changed? Oh shut your fucking **mouth-** ”

“I… I found out what compassion is like. Before Tigress, before all this. I remembered my days with the prototype of Teen Titans or whatever. This made me care. Remotely, but I do care. For you, and for Fyodor, especially.”

“Fyodor’s a literal Kawaii-Skynet, Artemis. He’ll do fine without you _or_ your half-arsed help,” Cobblepot shook Crock’s palm off his shoulder, now, “Vertigo, you… Everyone from days of Vlatava turned me into something else, and now you’re afraid of facing the fucking consequences.”

“I wouldn’t be _standing_ here if I were. I’m here to help you whack everyone in your way. And see how we could work on the same side, not on the opposites. Now man the fuck up and answer Ogilvy, we missed three calls already.”

With that said, Tigress gave a go-ahead to the White Rabbit. He put them through on an ancient-looking bar of a Nokia, its screen glowing bright-pink - now that’s what a successful infiltration looks like!

“Hello? Joshua, are you there?” Ignatius’s voice came through, rather loudly so.

“Yes, yes I’m here,” Josh replied dryly, “What do you want?”

“Well, first of all, I’d like my people back, but I know for sure you don’t have the necessary negotiation skills… So let me ask you a simple question: What does it feel like to _you?_ Being the most wanted man in Gotham, that is.”

The Rockhopper’s scowl has become audible on the call: “Oh I’m feelin’ peachy, Iggy. More of you to lure into my territory and kill all you fuckers off like flies, then grab all the royalties and swim back across the pond.”

“So that’s your plan?”

“In essence? Ye.”

“And how is everyone else doing? I take it they’re not too well?”

“You are entirely correct, Ignatius. My hammer didn’t bring Mr. Thorne, Mr. Stagg. Mr. Rojas, and some other nameless manwallets of yours a decent fate. Would you like to receive Mr. Thorne’s teeth or tongue?”

“I… What?” Ogilvy finally stammered, delivering the most pleased smile of all to Joshua’s face. Fyodor’s eyes were _glowing_ pink by now, with his own mug frozen in an uncanny, wide grin. 

“Tongue or teeth, you deaf hen?”

“Tongue. Keep the teeth to yourself.”

“Alright, alright. Also, with all due respect, _Aniki_ \- I’ll murder you when I walk into your turf. Slowly and painfully.”

“I’ll return the favor once I’ll do the same, hm-hmh~ Oh, and in fact - it might happen sooner than you expect, little cousin! It has been delivered to me that at least a thousand of Sionis’s puppies are heading your way, as well as about a dozen cars and an Apache from Robbinsville. See you at the dining table tonight, Joshua! Your tantrums were a real treasure to witness.”

Fyodor ended the call with the same bubbly expression. Joshua’s was frozen in that same scowl, as well. A long pause between the Narrows Trio was broken by Thorne’s moaning again. And, indeed, the revving of engines and rapid gunfire could be heard coming directly from Sprang Bridge - Emperor Penguin’s forces prepared for a massive offensive.

“...Rabbit-”

“Got it, Bosch! Lemme put my earsch on real quick.”

And Fyodor did, indeed, have a pair of bunny ears laying somewhere on his workspace. He rushed out of the room, a little shakily, also rubbing that same white powder into his tongue and gums over his buck-teeth, then slipped both his white top hat and the matching white ears on. The Bunny now hopped onto the roof, right onto the round, half-broken dome. The White Rabbit grasped onto the spire, and nearly stumbled into the remains of Rojas. 

“H-Hey there, Chief,” Fyodor muttered, a little startled by the gruesome display. But ohh, he’s not here to lament or mourn the head Brigadier - he’s here to breathe some Gotham in, and tear some Gotham down: Sprang Bridge is a couple hundred feet away from the Northern Precinct, so the entire offense prostrated in front of the Rabbit’s eyes. Burning tenements, shield walls from both the police and the rebels’ sides, gunfire from across the entire island. That was… Beautiful, to him. In a horrendous way, but _really_ beautiful. 

The heli’s there, too, just like Iggy promised. Touching the spire gave Fyodor a much better vision of who, what, where, and when. With the metal antenna on his side, he could achieve something magical. And bunnies are meant for magic tricks, after all! So his free hand, laced with Thorne and Cobblepot’s blood, turned into a finger-pistol. Bright-pink eyes shone all the brighter. The White Rabbit’s aim is proper, almost surgical in nature, and his state of calm renders most of the sounds silent around him. Even Joshua’s cussing over the radio doesn’t ring a bell within. All he can say by now is...

“Bang~”


	16. Butchers of Burnley, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three parts! Three tragedies: At first, the beginning of war between the Narrows and the rest of Gotham is illustrated from Harvey Bullock's point of view. They seem to be winning with the unknown forces (of Ignatius Ogilvy) arriving to the scene and helping the rest of the task force, and yet a lot, A LOT goes wrong. 
> 
> Next, Ethan figures out exactly WHO has been distorting the signal and WHO caused today's great failure of both the PD and the Caped Crusader that sponsors them; "this pale bitch!" Of course, he tries his very best to figure out how to break his code and stop the madness that this messenger of chaos brings, but his attempts are futile. However, Batgirl joins his side and Cobblepot's certainly not fawning over (yes he does).
> 
> Finally, Fyodor is now Theodore, Sokoloff is now Eagleton, and there are a whole bunch of captives for him to deal with! As well as Gotham's biggest broadcasting station, with which he corrupts the rest of those who have TV or internet. His goals are Joshua's goals, and Joshua's goals, it looks like, will come to fruition. Of course, if neither the Bat nor the Penguin find out how to crack this tough milk cookie.

_ @Sprang Bridge, Gotham City: _

The day passed like nothing. Nor did the sun play much of a role in making it seem like a day, anyway. Sun hasn’t shown up ever since that Rockhopper figure came to town. Bullock’s third pill of adderall for the day was thrown into the river - even that won’t make him more happy or focused than he is right now. A bulletproof vest is lazily clasped over his burly stomach, the loose black tie swinging down from the open collar of a stained shirt, rubbing up against the stubble wherever there are open spots. If only his jacket was moisture-proof - that’s when he would have stopped complaining over an extinguished ciggie butt tossed away by Montoya - also dressed in a similar way. 

“What the hell are you doing?!” She said, “We’ve got tires burning and a live blockade at this god-damn bridge, all the while you are taking a smoke break? Harv, c’mon!”

“ _ You _ c’mon, Renee! It’s not like we’ve got live fuel in here,” Bullock said disappointedly. 

“It’s still raining, though.”

“I know. Plus the river’s wild this cold-ass afternoon.” In spite of everything, Harvey put the last cig in the pocket out and plucked it into his mouth. Just to suckle on it. He paused, looking over the built-up barricades: “These commie fuckers couldn’t wait with their new revolution till April, could they?”

“Suppose so. We’re catching movement through heat sensors. Prepare for the offensive.”

Montoya was put in charge of this operation, with Bullock dragging along solely because he needs to keep his cred up. Otherwise, there will be no funds for his rehab and visiting Cobblepot at the Iceberg as regularly as he does now. Maybe he should retire, but at this point - isn’t it a bit too late for retirement, as well?  _ Oh, if only he saw the present himself seven years ago. Having a crush on Cobblepot? Seriously? _ Well, Harv himself wouldn’t call it a crush, but ever since Fish disappeared - Oz has become a suitable replacement. Like a dog entirely lost with who its owner really is, Detective stopped in his tracks before tossing the last cig of his off to the side, letting it fall down into Sprang River. 

GCPD’s side of the barricades consisted mostly of riot shields and Wayne Industries’ trucks. In spite of the Brigadiers’ side being made of trash bins, tires, fences, and sheets of siding, it did not lack in its structure. Not in the slightest. Some of the gruesome ‘trophies’, like the victims’ shoes, hung down from the top. A wall of cops in riot gear stood at the forefront, black smoke of burning tires obscuring their view and making it harder to stand still due to the noxious smell. Montoya, Perez, Pinkney and Ludd remained slouched in the blockpost - snipers were an obvious tactic, so one always had to be careful. Hell, everyone except Bullock and occasionally Perez wore helmets, too! But Harv is not afraid of catching lead in his brain - he’s gonna be chilling in his car anyway, while uniforms storm the place.

In spite of Distance, Montoya’s conversations were still audible:

“Birdie, what’s your status?”

“Observing the situation, Ma’am, all-clear all-stable, Ma’am.”

“Good, good. Channel 8, prepare the columns, go in through Robert Kane Memorial, requesting breakthrough assistance!”

“Aye Ma’am.”

“Channel 3, we’re ready to bust in, are you?”

“Roger, troops in position, over.”

“Roger, on your command Captain, over.”

Amid all the sharp orders given out, Harv also heard a lot of swearing in Spanish, as well as the occasional whistle of an arrow or a slingshot round going by. Uniforms at the front got the most smack thrown and shot at them. One was wounded, the other replaced him - a sturdy wall, no less, but fire and smoke both were overwhelming, therefore disallowing the troops from entering just yet. In spite of the wind, that thick stench of rubber stuck around for longer than it should have. Bullock wrinkled his nose from afar - he couldn’t possibly imagine how awful it was for the lungs of those at the forefront. 

Eventually - the command was given over radio, and this column started moving at a rapid speed across no man’s land on the bridge. Some stumbled on the broken pavement and tossed stones, others got pelted with bullets, but responded with tear gas bombs and rubber bullets in return. The military was ordered not to get involved - unless there will be something drastic like gunfire. Though, because of the Commissioner’s “fickle” relationship with Cape May down south, it appears nobody wants to get involved in Gothamite affairs from that side of the pond any longer. And that’s for the better - if only the Feds weren’t enamored with the idea of recruiting folks into Task Force X, still. 

Harv spotted a figure climbing up the North Precinct building, all of a sudden. Startled at first, he only pointed at the strange, lithe person standing at its upper roof - a round dome with a big spire and the tarnished anarchist flag waving atop. Bullets were but a mere echo as he continued to watch what looked like a pallid ghost, with white hair and a lithe body,  _ and bunny ears for some weird god-damn reason _ , silently heading to the blockpost at the back while the situation heated up: 

In spite of numerous wounded, both frontlines kept a high morale and a steady number of troops, increasing with each passing minute. Those wounded were immediately cleared off the site and replaced by two more. Whenever the tires’ smoke started clearing out, more were tossed into the pile from above. 

“Dear residents,” the speakers from GCPD’s side of the bridge monotonously repeated, “We kindly ask you to disperse and return home. The situation, is currently, un-safe. Local, law, enforcement, will enforce, peace, and use, strict, measures, of, doing so.”

“ **_Muere, puta!_ ** ”

“Fuck outta here, Pigs!”

“You ain’t welcome in  _ our _ land no more!”

“Back to your pig-pens, y’Southside mooks!”

The Narrows were never a very cop-friendly place in Gotham. Hell - Gotham isn’t a very cop-friendly place, in general. However, at this point, with the rise of hardline anarchists and (unrelated to them) maniacs in the community, the despise for that kind of authority reached its peak. Gordon, a veteran of such street-level matters and more of a counselor than dictator, couldn’t handle it in time. There were hardline cops who fully deserved shit thrown at them - most of GCPD, anyway - but no one on the other side of the barricades even pretended to look like they’re doing the right thing, themselves. A sad sight, really. Especially for Harvey, who saw people with decorum getting corrupted, and those who never had it obtaining more power than they could chew. With Jim nearly gone, he nearly lost all hope. And now Montoya’s falling apart, as well. And now - it’s time for him to panic.

Orders, orders - so many orders were given out, and yet no one listened. It’s tense at the frontlines and in the back rows, as the moans of the wounded fill the rest of the blocked-off street. Multiple ambulances are left to work in peace, untouched by the snipers on the other side of Sprang river. 

“Montoya!” Harv barked, “Call it forth. Call in backup! We’re not pushing anywhere like dat!”

“No shit, Bullock - s’ what I’m trying to do here, but the connection’s jammed.”

“Jammed? Y’mean the shit Wayne gave us is garbage?!” Both detectives looked most confused. Well, a detective and a captain. 

“Point is - it isn’t,” Renee’s hands haphazardly rebooted the surveillance system and the radio on the post, previously thought to be uncrackable. 

“We… We can’t call for backup. I saw some fuck climbing up the Precinct, who is it?”

“Like I fucking know, Harvey… Get back to  **reality** , DO something!”

“ **I can’t!** ”

Bullock and Montoya understood they’re screwed, now. Fucking hell - Harvey also forgot his phone at home! If only… Although they can’t pull back from this zone of digital isolation right now, some help appears to be on the way. No, in fact - they’re here now; two or three armored humvees, all-black, stopped right in front of the police-made barriers and provided additional support to the underarmed and underarmored line of troops. More men emerged out of these vehicles, but they had no insignia, no distinct features outside of their riot gear, and weapons - they had actual weapons. Pelting the Brigadiers’ barricades from all sides with suppressive fire, they also picked up the tossed riot shields and moved forth, not nearly as civil and passive as the actual task force. 

The heli’s propeller could be heard, as well. It seems that finally,  _ finally _ the rebels’ ranks started to waver. But no - strange things are still happening. Neither Renee nor Harvey knew who these paramilitary folks were, but since they were helping them against a clear and very aggressive threat - nobody minds. It’s Gotham, after all. A haven of strange events, people, air - everything! But, most of the troops are now distracted with their devices, especially the walkie-talkies. They’re cluttering up with white noise! Oh, it must be that bastard on the roof-

He was right. Bullock was so, very right. 

A distinctly-pink shockwave rushed from the captured North Precinct. A loud, cackling sort of noise came from the comm-links, which evolved into an ear-piercing screech. Sparks and lightning came from all sorts of tech - ranging from the monitors in the blockpost and finishing up with the small fries’ walkie-talkies. Screams and pained moans came from everyone who held it in their hands. Some exploded, chunks of flesh hanging off the palms, hips, chest - wherever those things turned to malice. Harvey couldn’t hold back from falling down and convulsing on the floor, trying his best to reach for his pack of pills in the pocket. The last thing he saw were the wounded rising up, nothing but that same pink veil put over their eyes. The last thing he heard, however… Was Renee’s gun going off. 

Bang. 

***

_ @Warehouse District, Gotham City: _

“And now - to Vicki Vale, with a special report on yesterday’s  _ harrowing _ events,” the television screen still flickered from yesterday’s cyber-offense, but Vale’s pale face was, once again, gracing the warehouse hideout. Ethan observes the “very best” reporter to come out of Gotham. Alone. Much like her. Oh wait - there she is! Batgirl, working in the background, helping carry the wounded out of the now restricted Narrows Exclusion Zone. He’s a fan, he is fawning over - and he cannot help but overhear the report Vale can barely give, visibly exhausted by the entirety of the past forty-eight hours: 

“Good evening, Thomas! If only tonight could be called good, since for many families in Gotham - electricity and internet connection are now a luxury. At four in the afternoon, a separatist group known previously as the Rojas Brigade, now calling themselves Butchers of Burnley, initiated a full-scale blockade of Northside Gotham. It is still unclear who exactly leads the rebels, but allegations of GCPD’s lead detectives suggest it might be Joshua Cobblepot. Yes, you heard it right - the Penguin’s  _ nephew _ is allegedly the one behind the massacre and mass abduction of our citizens…”

There came the flashing images of the damage caused by the defendants, as well as a photo of the “alleged” leader of the Butchers. Blacksun knew for  _ certain _ this was the Rockhopper’s doing. He was observing him as closely as one can observe someone who’s being protected by a sissy technological demigod. Now Ethan’s pissed - and he’s digging through the boxes in order to try and find something, anything that could change the turn of events, because after Ogilvy and Martin - it’s  _ him _ on the line. And, thus far, the other Cobblepot understood his cousin’s not going to stop at any given point.

“...Attempts of seizing control back from the Butchers have resulted in today’s outage, however - surprisingly - it is not the cops’ fault, as the irreplaceable Commissioner Gordon implies. Speculations of a tech-reinforced metahuman working for the Butchers have also been laid onto the table, though this matter is being investigated by none other than the Caped Crusader and Birds of his own…”

“Hare. Bunny. Bunnyhare, Harebunny-  **the White. Rabbit.** This  _ bitch _ !” As the report flashed by, dozens of cops were shown as injured, but standing proud in spite of being beaten down by literal hobos and a batch of anarchists. Vicki’s smile never wavered, in spite of the moans and grunts behind her. Always at the forefront, but oh - Batgirl really does steal the show! Is this an obsession? Ethan can’t quite put a finger on it. He’s concerned, obviously, but seeing heroes work just… Calms him down, in a way. Especially if it’s her - the only hero capable of defeating him, and who already broke him down once.

“...The casualty count still stands at sixteen, though over two hundred have been abducted, as other official sources state. Today’s failure has resulted in the now confirmed suicide of Police Captain Renee Montoya, who, as Police Detective Harvey Bullock states, has been “brainwashed” by the outage. The funeral of Captain Montoya is due tomorrow, promises of “vengeance, justice, and retribution” were made, Detective Bullock is currently in Gotham Memorial Hospital, recovering alongside other members of GCPD who have suffered through a staggering defeat. What’s going on? Who is the real leader behind this rebellion? Will the feds get involved? And most importantly - when will it ever stop getting weirder? More at eleven.”

“I know who you are, you little shit - your firewall’s impenetrable, huh? Huh?! HA! I’ll be the test of that, fucker! Fawning over the worst breed of our family got your pale ass somewhere. Let’s see what gets you back the fuck out,” Oh yes - Ethan is offended, pissed, and he’s got the face of ultimate schadenfreude stretching his lips and eyelids out. Both his hands hold four extra laptops, which are then opened up once the entire workspace has been cleared out by a quick arm-swoop. 

Now, what’s the most primitive way of ruining someone’s domain? DDoS, of course. And can it be put on a whole ‘nother level, with the right tech? Naturally, it can be. With eight devices at hand, it appears Blacksun can create a flock of birds big enough to fry Pentagon’s brains out. “Thank you, Mr. Queen,” Cobblepot muttered under his breath while booting up the four other rigs. There’s power to last for a while, but for safety measures - the lights are switched off, as well. Only the emerald-green and blue of his screens light the entire warehouse from this point on. However, before starting his wide-scale codehunt, Ethan has to figure out the address of said domain - and it simply doesn’t exist! 

Another try, and another try. Eight different strands of coding slowly flowed across the screen and loaded through with that same slowness. Identification is a pain in the ass, but no matter how hard Ethan tried to get a smidgen of a route, no matter how many IP addresses or keys to… To SOMETHING have been showing up, they were deemed wrong a second later. And the surveillance footage has gone somewhere. Did someone touch his shit? Could it be… No. All Ethan did now is waste a whole bunch of network to a notebook of pointless numbers. Tossing that aside, as well, he closed only one of his tools down and stretched out in his chair, under the sound of lo-fi echoing from a speaker in the distance, and raindrops falling down into the big puddle of an entrance. 

His resting place rolled farther and farther away from the numerous monitors. Soon, music faded away into the void, and all Ethan Cobblepot was left with is the recognition of his own inferiority. As well as a question. Will he always remain like this? A police clerk who quit his job as a hero’s sidekick just to try his luck with the family fortune? He’ll be dead. Just like the rest of them. Joshua is the one who wants it the most,  _ and  _ he’s a pure Cobblepot. Not like he isn’t. Is he? But on the other hand - what if he is the only one left in the Cobblepot lineage? He doesn’t want Dad’s death, or Mom’s death, or even Dad’s boyfriend’s death. He’s not like…  _ Him. _

Nobody in this stupid turf war had to die. Has to die.

“Man… You  _ really  _ should get a better hideout,” A familiar voice, and a familiar face with the pointy ears, made their entrance right over the newbie vigilante’s head.

“ **Batgirl?!** ” He yowled, and fell right off his seat, stumbling on over to the makeup stall, “Oh no- I mean oh yes! I mean, oh NO! You should not have seen me like this, I-I’m so damn sorry, this is-”

“Believe me, I also  _ totally _ don’t mind how you look,” Batgirl said while stepping on over to Blacksun’s workspace, stomping her booted feet into the puddle. 

“I uh…” Now this was awkward - Ethan’s barely holding himself on his feet, especially since he doesn’t have his exoskeleton on: “...I know who you are, Barbara.”

“I do, too, Ethan. Now show me what you have here and we’ll get to work.”

Woah. Wait. Wait just a minute - he’s going to work… With her? With Barbara Gordon?! Cobblepot can’t believe what he’s hearing, so instead of continuously fawning over her presence - he steps up and boots the closed-off tool back up, while Gordon herself is in the process of looking over lines of code and thrown-out paper sheets. 

“I also know of your surveillance tapes,” she said, “That you’ve been watching me, who you’ve been working for before GCPD, and so on. You aren’t as invisible as you think you are, Ethan. Buuuut, since I also took some time to read your dossier-”

“You read… My dossier?!”

“Yes! So since I did that, and since my dad doesn’t despise you nearly as much as he did before, I uh. Think you deserve a second chance. Buuuut you’re also kinda meeeeeh in that, so, if you want me to - can I help?”

A long, shaky nod came out of the crippled and decrepit birdling, as the batling finalized her conclusion with a matching long sigh: “No. This does not mean you are a team. But I care for those who wanna help. Especially since I can actually help you with my knowledge and experience. You’re  _ young, _ Ethan! Wait. So am I. Whatever. Y’know what I meant.  _ Anyway! _ The bunny you’re looking for is one helluva challenge. No can do! Remember how everything’s IP changes in like, every twelve hours?”

“Yeah?”

“Step on closer,” Barbs ordered, a little too dryly, but Ethan’s just being a fan all over again. Now that he’s close, he can see the numbers shifting at a dramatic speed. “...His whole address changes eighty times every second. The White Rabbit is an untraceable machine… Thing…”

“Metahuman,” Cobblepot said proudly. 

“Yeah. Right.”

“So what do we do?” Ethan said, looming over his desk, and, subsequently - Barbara. He’s grinning, in spite of a face laced with burns. Barbs smiles back, but probably only because she’s being supportive. A long pause follows through, and, as the TV shows - the broadcast has been intercepted. And guess who’s sitting in the (now former) host’s main seat: “This pale bitch.”

“Well,” Gordon looked over Cobblepot, “Untraceable through tech, I mean. Ay Ethan - do ya still have that exo-suit of yours ready?”

“Technically? Yes. Actually? I need to look over it-”

“No time.”

“Yes.”

“Looks like it’s time to stretch you out! And, I hope you have not forgotten any of your karate skills back from high school, ‘cause I will  _ not _ scrape you off the floor in case Bats comes.”

“Right, uhm… Sure, let’s head out!” Ethan said, and stumbled through the back door into what Barbs presumes is the private room. In the meantime - more footage is copied onto such an antiquated thing as a flash drive (ew), and stored in one of the pockets. 

A Cobblepot this naive isn’t worth putting to jail, so… He might as well be useful as a temporary ally.

***

_ @Gotham Central Television broadcast center, Gotham City: _

“...More at eleven.” With the screen full of Vicki Vale cut out of the picture, Thomas Locke clenched his fist and pinched the bridge of his nose with the other hand. A long, destitute sigh came out of him next, with his head sinking downward, and further downward. Until his forehead hit the table with a loud thump. 

“God,” he groaned, “When will I ever get to do my own segment without being constantly interrupted by this bitch? I’m  _ tired _ of this shit, man, shoulda moved to the City, instead,  _ hrm-mmh-hmumuh… _ ” The angry mutterings continued until Tom put his smile back on and prepared to head out of his office. Journalists in Gotham City were never “done for the day”, so the visibly exhausted and forcibly smiling house reporter hoped, somewhere deep in his head, that he’ll get at least four hours of sleep tonight. 

Until a phone call interrupted his happy headspace. 

The grumbles returned, and a very fake “Hello!” slipped through Tom’s grit teeth. 

“Haiii~”

“Do I know you? How can I help you?”

“Ohh, you may not  _ know _ me, but you’ll help me plenty, Tommy,” A nasty, squeaky and sing-song voice came through, much to the absolute disdain expressed directly on Locke’s face. “Don’t frown, now!” It continued, “I can schee your every move, darlin’.”

“...Okay, who is this and what do you want from me?” Tom’s eyes trailed around the entire studio, but nothing except the cameras were there. “Are you kiddin’ me? Who, what…”

A shrill, equally-unpleasant chuckle came through. He’s being fucked with, that’s for sure: “I want nothiiing but your waschted attention, baybee. I’m already here, after all!~”

“Listen HERE,” the reporter broke his character on the forty-second second of the call, “I don’t give a damn who you are, I really don’t - let me be and we’ll-”

“But you haven’t even lischened to me yet!”

“ **What do you want?!** ”

“Now, don’t raische yer voische at me.”

“ **Speak normally, then!** ”

“Fine! You want me to speak normally, I can do that…  **Though you won’t like the** **_outcome of that~_ ** ” A voice that sounded like an antiquated 30s broadcast suddenly turned oh-so very real, as if these were Thomas’s own thoughts. He could feel his heart race, but his body remained still against his own will. He couldn’t even move the phone away from his ear, as the voice crawled in deeper and deeper. His heartbeat got faster and faster. The same words repeated over and over again. 

“ **_Now, tell you what, Tommy - you’ve been kind of a little shit lately, right?~ Right. I know everything, I see everything, and I know that you bought five grams of ketamine the other day. As well as that gun… Ah…_ ** ” Even though the voice behind the screen stopped talking, and made one long, stretched-out pause, Locke could feel the pressure in his eyes, veins, tongue, heart, rise up and continuously increase. He cried his bloody tears and drooled his bloody drool while the phone’s screen remained pink. His mind’s screaming to move, his lungs - burning, as he’s not able to inhale or exhale. But then, he remembers. Tom knows exactly what this creature is talking about, and that his end is, fortunately, near:

“ **_Ooh! A Glock, yes! Reasoning - self-defence, no previous criminal record. Ohh, baybeee, it could have been such a clean kill!~ But here I am, being a nuisance, interrupting your perfect plan of how to get rid of Vicki Vale. What a shame, really. I’d love to see the end of that spectacle! If only I weren’t the main actor in it. Now sleep, darling - and never, ever wake up._ ** ”

The phone burnt the unfortunate reporter’s hand, already. And then - it exploded. Right in his face. Simultaneously, the pressure overwhelmed his aorta, and it burst open, alongside most of the capillaries. Blood rushed out of his ears, eyes, nose, and mouth, with Tom’s face now perpetually resting on the desk. Or, well, not-so perpetually, since the White Rabbit stood right around the corner. Alongside a couple of sacked, ziptied, and leashed captives. 

“Well, now he’sch toascht! Whatcha think, boysss an’ girlsss? Oh wait, shit you got ah. POP in ya mouths! A-ha-ha!” Theodore laughed as the guests of his winced in both fear and agony. The Bunny had a little remote control’s lever flicked to the other side, and a small spot in the bags suddenly turned red. With each captive secured, he had to tug a truly  _ massive _ duffel bag out of the backstage. Then, the Brigadiers infiltrated the building, as well, purposefully not spotted by the cameras as the Rabbit kept control of pretty much any tech that was in the building. 

They did the dirty job - they were arranging the three bodies of some random Gothamite schmucks… Oh Theodore doesn’t care about that! But, he’s going to make a performance for Joshy.  _ And _ for this wonderful city! Since Joshy loves taking it to the next level, the bodies are attached to the wall, hang from the ceiling, and pay prostrated alongside Tom Trench over there to create a perfect decor for the gruesome broadcast “at eleven”, as promised. 

“Mannnn… It’s forty minutesch till that thing schtarts!” This obviously couldn’t wait. It’s the first time he’s  _ ever  _ going to do that stereotypically-villainous live broadcast! And it’s certainly exciting, since not even his pretty face is the main goal of this spectacle. It’s thirty minutes till the performance begins, still, so he’s checking up on the little folk through their dirty black rags. This one, in the black suit with an orange bowtie, receives some nice headpats, the one with the emerald-green necktie gets backhanded, a pretty gal in a matching black-n’-orange dress receives a teensy kiss, then there are the boring ones - the  _ blue boys. _ They get a single headpat each, to signify it’s fine, but they’re also  _ meeeh _ in value. Insignificant little shits!

Finally, it was three minutes to eleven, and the White Rabbit had to be dressed accordingly; his luxurious hair were groomed by two grown-ass men handling pretty combs and lacquer cans. A pearl necklace - so symbolic to Gotham - adorned Theodore’s neck, whereas a pale-blue shirt with a sinfully-low cleavage exposed more pallid skin. White fingerless gloves, white breeches with one sturdy black boot and the other pink and heeled, and of course - a pristine, white shawl draped right over his shoulders. 

“Lightsch, Camera, Drumroll… Action!”

The report at eleven most expected to be led by Vicki Vale was interrupted by a direct transmission from the studio. As expected. Grimacing in front of the camera for the first few seconds, Fyodor then looked straight into it for another couple of seconds, put his feet up on the desk and lounged in his chair before saying: 

“Hai~ Right now you may be wondering, “who the HELL isch thisch guy?!” “What’sch he doin’ in my Tee-Vee? Where’sch Vicki?” I’m going to answer these questions slowly, and methodically, but you will have to listen, first! So  **_Listen~_ ** ” 

Lights flickered once the Bunny made an emphasis: “I have… A confession, to make. My real name is Theodore Eagleton. My even MORE real name is Fyodor Sokoloff. I go by: “The White Rabbit”!  _ Add a trademark there- _ H-yeah! Don’t even bother googlin’ it, I have purposefully erased all information, because it’s mine and I didn’t want for you to  _ schee  _ me before we began our little seance. Oh, and schpeakin’ of that - we have very special guests tonight!”

Some of the assigned soldiers walked up to the captives and yanked the black sacks off of each one of their heads. With each hood gone, their names were announced by the same sultry, yet unpleasantly-infiltrating voice: Arnold Wesker and the perpetually-silent Mr. Dunlow with him, Rupert Thorne, Zehraa Laban - a top waitress at the Empyrean - and finally, Martin Perez with Jackson Ludd, two Captains from Eastside and Otisburg Precincts. 

“Got your attention now, Commish! Didn’t I?” It’s clear to whom this message was addressed, as well as the rest of the council that was next to Gordon at this very moment, “My goal right now is to keep it focused on  _ me  _ and my employer’s  _ goal _ , since this is exactly what I am here for. And now, dear listeners - why don’t you step outside and look out the window? Catch some fresh air, mm? No, Jimbo, not you or your bitchboysch! You schtay riiight where ya are, it’s for the citizens~” 

With that addressed, a couple of guards moved over to the barred-off windows, to see if the signal worked; bad news for the cops - it did, as those with their TVs on at this very moment were already resting next to the windows, and in fact, were already standing on the very edge of their balconies if they had them. Thumbs-up given - Theodore is pleased. 

“Aha, great! The weather’s beautiful outside today… Well, not really, it’s SHIT, but you’re going to listen anyway! Oh damn! Right, right, I have to make it  _ schimple… _ What I need from  _ you _ , my darling policemen, are a couple of heads~ No, not literally - otherwise you’d be copying us! And we’ll send in a letter of infringement for that! No-no, we NEED a couple of people handed over to us. Their names are: Ignatius Ogilvy, Oswald Cobblepot, Edward Nygma, Penelope Solust, Viktor Zsasz, Ignatius Ogilvy, Martin Vickers, Roman Sionis, and Harvey Dent.” 

For every, say… Five minutes of their tightly-packed and present-wrapped asses not being at Sprang Bridge, one of our viewers is going to try flying~ And for every hour, one of  _ these  _ fine men of Gotham’s high society is going to have a severe case of missing brains! Ha-haa…  _ It’s my first time liveschtreamin’ babes, I’m SO sorry for being so nervous, oohoo!- _ When all the targets will be brought to the altar, everything stops. The violence, the killings, the hackenings and the terror. You will let us simply go away, and we will never-ever-ever be naughty again. Pinky-swear! And if some Batman or Birdman or Frogman tries to stop ME from doing my JOB, well…” 

There is a flicker in the White Rabbit’s eyes. A distinct, horrifying pink flicker. In a click of his finger, Mr. Dunlow’s head is no more. Considering it’s just a cloth gag with a very tender stuffing, it’s obvious why the captives are trying not to move their tongue around too much. However, Wesker cannot hold himself back from letting out a terrified scream, and slumping down in an attempt to cradle his shortest-lived puppet’s head closer. The Bunny, in the meantime, turned his chair towards the waiting line and gently shook his head: 

“...Yeah. Don’t try my patience, fellas.  _ Poor Wilson, man I’m schorry- _ Anyway, please, if you want to save these poor muffins - bring the slimy motherfuckers in!  **_I see all, and I will be waiting._ ** Oh- Baaabe.”

“Yeah?”

“Turn the livestream off for a minute, please!”

“Sure, Mr. Rabbit.”

In order to maintain an element of secrecy, all the lights in the building were turned off, most of the tech - shut down by Theodore himself. Brigadiers aligned themselves by most suitable shooting spots, barring off the windows with broken floorboards & furniture. Although GCPD were already on the spot - a dozen cars and a heli, at least - they all went in a different direction. The plan was a success. Well… So long as the big scare works on the rest of the cops and the feds and most importantly - Batman. He isn’t meant to be here. Not for long! Because Joshy will come pick him up… Will he?

With the cameras (and the lights) cut out, only that vibrant, dark, toxic pink was prevalent in the studio. Fyodor walked over to Arnold - he was first in line - and sat himself in between him and the half-dead Rupert Thorne. While Eagleton stared off into the void, Wesker hunched over the corpse of his imaginary friend and quietly sobbed, for to him - he was not imaginary at all. It’s all gone wrong since Mr. Scarface. Has he gone mad? Has he always been mad? He cannot think. All Arnie can feel is the Bunny’s lithe hand resting on his shoulder. “Oh I’m sorry,” “It will be over soon,” “I’m just following orders” - bullshit. A Sokoloff, of Russian blood and Scottish upbringing, does not sugarcoat his wrongdoings. And yet, there’s sympathy, and longing in his deepened voice:

  
“He really  _ was  _ a person to you, after all.”


	17. The Sprang Bridge Skirmish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Third Part is coming to a close, so does the reign of terror on the other side of Sprang River. Joshua Cobblepot comes out alone, with the main army heading towards the barricades. Gotham City is held hostage, or... Is it, really? That task has already been solved by Batman. The White Rabbit is betrayed by Joshua, but Joshua is, too, betrayed by Tigress. The rest of the town teams up against the forgotten Cobblepot, which might very well lead to a tragic fate. Oswald does not wish this fate upon Joshua, but it appears he will not have much of a choice in these desperate circumstances.

_ @Sprang Bridge, Gotham City: _

It’s just as cloudy as it was the day before. Furthermore, the steel-gray color of the sky lays all the harder on Gotham’s spires. The city’s usual goings-on can’t be heard, even though they should be there. That said, most of the people have been forced to freeze outside, anyway. It’s the 22nd of March. A rather unfortunate date, one must mention. Batman could not care less for the shitshow going on at the bridge - he’s out in the wild, trying to get himself into the broadcasting station. Free the hostages - all several thousand of them. Some of the areas were unaffected by the livestream, but these pockets of sanity were miniscule. Most of Gotham stood outside for the entire night, so the unaffected paramedics had one busy three-AM clearing numbers out of their homes. 

The second stand-off between the cops and the rebels was much calmer this time. Joshua and his court won this battle. They knew they did, and they flaunted it accordingly. In spite of the promises he made two weeks ago never being fulfilled, the army still stood with him. No one’s sure why, even themselves. Is it fear? Perhaps. Fear is a powerful tool. Is it money? There’s none to be had in the Narrows. Is it passion? For what? Unbridled violence? For some, that is the sole cause of them being here. Standing behind the barricades, with the shaken-up prisoners slowly being led out by the leader himself. 

In the bridge’s other corner, there stood a mighty arrangement of troops, official or not: Commissioner Gordon and the mentally-scarred Harvey Bullock were somehow allowed on the scene, among the sea of unmarked militiamen in all-black. Those belonged to Ogilvy - nothing outlined them out of the endless crowd besides orange patches on their shoulders. And there was Ignatius himself, standing next to all these official people as if he’s one of their breed. Orange tie, grey shirt, white vest, black coat - as well as a simple black eyepatch. No one would want to waste diamonds on Northside trash, right? 

While Ogilvy maintained a morale-boosting stance and facial expression, Cobblepot scowled when he saw the uncle step up, as well. Oswald is much shorter than most, but compared to Iggy? Yeah, he’s tiny. If only he had the rich fuck on his side - then he could toss the bastard off the ledge and they all will be done with it. Alas, Ogilvy’s the same bitch as everyone else he’s managed to come across. And the especially-nasty glare came when he smiled towards  _ him. _ Iggy’s got that  _ Vertigo smile.  _ Those fangs are too sharp, those teeth are too perfect, and those eyes are too cold to be human. Joshua’s face quickly removes the tension of displeasure, as he steps up to kick one of the captured cops in the back. Then, demonstratively - a curb-stomp follows through:

“That’s what will happen to everyone that tries to fuck with me right now,” the Rockhopper hissed through rage and schadenfreude, “I got what I wanted. No one has to fuckin’ die. Your snipers in the back try shit - everyone dies. Anyone moves - everyone dies. This fat fuck belches - everyone fuckin’  **dies** , so Gordon - hand ‘em to me and let’s get this over with.” 

“You first,” the Commissioner said, “Otherwise we won’t know if you’ll give  _ our _ boys back or not.” 

Joshua smirked, then grinned, and finally - bent down in a hearty, raspy laugh. This lasted for a long time. The Rockhopper-turned Mockingbird managed to piss Ogilvy off more than he should. The veins on Ignatius’s face turned dark, his irises - a deep, vinous color. If only for a moment. 

“You still think I’m fucking joking ‘ere. No, seriously - when do you knobhead cops ever get the message?” 

**Bang** \- and just like that, another life was lost. Much to the gasps and shivers of many in the crowd, a bagged uniform had his eardrum burst open with a loose Makarov round. “You don’t have a bargain. You don’t have leverage here. Your side has  _ nothing, _ Commissioner. Apart from some bridges I want tae burn this morning. Very,  _ very  _ badly. So be fuckin’ reasonable! I only need five more bodies,  _ five, _ before it’s over-” 

“I’d rather see no more bodies. Most of the town would rather not.” 

“Well that’s too fuckin’ bad!” Another cocky chuckle came from the forgotten Cobblepot, “I wanted tae return to Alba before dawn, and yet I’m standing here before ya, wastin’ my breath at this very moment… March ‘em forward.” 

The free uniforms obliged. Joshua’s right - and he maintains tight control over the crowd. The rebels are armed to the teeth, too, so without Batman or his birds’ help, advancing or doing anything outside of given orders is a suicide mission. Oswald, Edward, Penny, Iggy and Martin had their arms ziptied behind their backs, forced to waddle forth as if they were actual birds. Rockhopper was visibly elated with this picture. With a nod of his head, some masked guerillas marched forward and laid all four of his targets on the pavement scorched with burning tires beforehand. 

“Here. We did our part. Now do yours.” Gordon, somehow, maintained his calm through it all. Bullock was ready to burst. His face was red, and he could barely see through sweat forming on his forehead. Montoya’s suicide left a visible impact on his pallid hands, as well. Rockhopper gestured to the Brigadiers’ female counterparts. They undid the shackles and released the captives. Those were visibly malnourished, and most definitely brutally beaten. Their accounts… Oh, what will their accounts do against a person who hid away for years while being wanted? The hopelessness of this situation drove everybody on Gotham’s side on edge, while the Narrows gloated over their victory. In the most disgusting, gruesome way possible.

One bird’s boot slammed into the Penguin’s back of the head. A crack, then a pain-filled moan came from below - Oswald’s nose has been shattered, two steady streams of blood rushing down from the nostrils. “There. Now that’s a grand agreement! I’m sure this must feel relieving, Commissioner. And, while your Bat has been busy with trying to crack my Bunny, I suppose I might as well, ah… Fulfill my revenge right here right now.” 

“You’re gonna make us… Watch?” Gordon asked, finally breaking the facade of cool.

“You sick bastard,” Bullock hissed, “How much blood is enough for yer sorry ass, you fucking peacock?!” 

“No blood of a Cobblepot is “enough” blood, dumb mutt! I’ll make him watch as the city he built will die before he does! He deserves it, all of you fuckin’ deserve it, every single one of you!” 

“No!” 

“Shoot the fucker!”

“Get him off my back!!!”

“He’s got a gun!”

“ **Theodore, NOW!** ”

...Silence. A hundred screams have emerged from the GCPD, but none were replied with loud thumps from the neighboring houses. Joshua’s face went from schadenfreude to that of utter shock. This was not predicted before. How did he… “Theodore. Now.” A much more hollow voice emerged from the depths of his burning lungs. As anxiety built up, the order was still unfulfilled. Then, that elated expression returned, and Josh crouched down, aiming his hammer right at Oswald’s head: “Well… There are always imperfections! Doesn’t mean I won’t do my job, though.”

“ _ Oh I don’t think you will, fucker! _ ” 

That voice came from above. Marked out by the beam of a spotlight, Batgirl and Blacksun came down from the bridge’s rafters. Before the rebels knew, EMPs rained down on their heads. Dozens fell from electric shock in the seconds. Those that tried to open fire were sedated then, by punches and batons. Joshua silently watched as his plan crumbled, even putting his leg off Oswald’s head in the meantime. A wall of shields was put up by the cops immediately after unexpected saviors dropped down from the sky. 

The Bridge is a mess - though, remaining forces  _ carried _ the shocked unsuccessful dictator behind the walls… The gates of which were torn down by an advancing force bigger than his. The Bridge’s other end is blocked, too. Multiple gunshots and wails can be heard from a couple blocks ahead. The snipers did the rest of the job - and Tigress was nowhere to be found. That bitch escaped. Josh knew. But alas - loneliness is best in the current circumstances. Ogilvy tore through and let blood run in rivers. He’s no longer in control - only the Man-Bat serum is. Oh, and there Arty is - behind enemy lines, helping Solust out and tending to Oswald’s wounds. Of course she betrayed him - there wasn’t much to fight for to begin with.

Then, a clarity of mind came to the forgotten Cobblepot. As well as an unstoppable wave of adrenalin. Although his forces are clearly at a disadvantage, he can at least go down with honor: A scream of unbridled  _ rage _ came from the withered, pallid and thin fellow with a missing nose. He was ahead of his own lines, now. AK-74 in one hand, hammer in the other. Startled by such an appearance, the GCPD fell back a few steps, as they were continuously shot. With thirty bullets wasted, Joshua used his hammers to try and scare the baton-waving mooks away. 

Ogilvy couldn’t wait for this any longer. Or, to elaborate on that - he couldn’t  _ control himself  _ any longer. The diamond in place of his eye fell out, as his face twisted into a scowl. Perfectly-white teeth transformed into ugly, uneven, yellow fangs. The remaining eye turned vinous, instead of that distinct baby-blue. And, of course - the skin turned a distinct, midnight-like color: Emperor Penguin, much to the horror of those surrounding him, is now Man-Bat. 

The last couple of bullets in Joshua’s magazine got Harvey right in the stomach. With a pained grunt he fell, and could barely notice as Ogilvy rushed forth, unfazed by the bullets, and yanked the rifle out of the Rockhopper’s hands. Ethan and Batgirl, on the other hand, unsheathed their batons and prepared to apprehend him from behind. 

“So... Family reunions, eh?”

Feral Ignatius was a scary sight to witness, but Joshua’s  _ used _ to looking such apex predators in the eye. That said, whenever Ogilvy tried to slash at him with his talons or bash him with his wings, he dodged, and hit the hammer back. Whenever Ethan or Barbara tried to use the electrocuting devices of their own, he pulled back. At one point, he even let Batgirl sock Ogilvy in the gut, only proning him to grow more outraged and grasp at his leg- Oh no. Cobblepot’s been tossed aside, only to be caught by Oswald and Edward, who tried to put the cuffs onto him. Joshua stumbled away and prepared to unload his gun, but his hand was shot by both Gordon and Bullock. That’s a fight he cannot win, so the troops continued retreating. They went back, and back, until nobody but the bruised and bloodied Rockhopper remained.

Surrounded. At least forty red dots on his body. He’s not raising his arms, in spite of the booming orders. They… They broke through. So easily. For a plan… He had no plan. Only a burning desire, to get rid of the one man he blamed for all his pain and misfortunes. Josh reached for a cig. Slowly and steadily. Entirely unbothered by rifles pointing at him, as well as Ethan’s afterburners, Batgirl’s batarangs, Oswald’s umbrella, Ignatius’s fangs… Fuck ‘em all. At least he’ll go down while having a smoke break. 

Joshua, still unbothered, walked over to the Bridge’s parapet. Now he has nowhere to run - at all. Hell, if the Bat was here, he wouldn’t be killed, but now that it’s certain - he’s nothing to hide. He began: 

“Three years, laddie… Three fuckin’ years, and we come to this… I still have a fully-loaded MP7 on the side, two razors in the heels, a bulletproof vest and a hammer. Just so you’re aware, I’m not surrendering.”

“We figured,” Bullock croaked weakly from the corner, hunched over and bleeding from multiple gunshot wounds. 

“Good,” Josh continued, “But before you do - I want all of you to listen to a little story-”

“Fuck your stories,” Ethan said, “Fuck your sob-story, fuck your memories, fuck  _ everything _ about you!”

“Just lay down, Joshua,” Batgirl added.

“You lost,” Gordon said, “You lost everything, Cobblepot. You’re the _ loser _ here. Do as you’re told.” 

“Not my fault I’ve a problem with authority,” Rockhopper pointed to the bleeding Penguin and the shaken-up Riddler, “Ask these two skets. Anyway, the story is-”

“ **Shut the fuck up,** ” Ogilvy, now a beast, growled through grit fangs, “ **Shut your fucking mouth. Nothing you did can be justified,** **_nothing!_ ** ”

“-there was a TITAN, called Prometheus. A real forethinker, a visionary, who helped mankind thrive by stealing fire from Zeus. Ya know, Zeus was a real piece of SHET, but everyone else still had to bow to him because he was apparently the richest, and therefore the most handsome, the wisest, and everything else. For his crimes, Prometheus was left alone, chained, as birds came to feast on his innards - for  _ helping. _ For making others realize their beloved idol is imperfect, that he kept them in  _ darkness _ just to fuck over everybody else…” 

A drag later, Joshua looked over the crowd. His lips can’t help but tremble: “You all have an idol among your ranks, whatever it may be. Batman, I guess. Well… You can’t not respect force - and money. Money! That’s fuckin’ it! Any ugly, slimy cunt turns to honey whence it has money.  **You all BOW to Wayne, Stagg, Thorne, those** **_Nygmas_ ** **over there, fucking Penguin, only for them to throw you out! You BOW to those who feed you moolah, only to give a fraction of what they could have! Only to abandon you all once the ship starts sinking! Only to use you like** **_condoms_ ** **that tear apart before they’re of any use to ‘em!** And you know what? You didn’t  _ deserve _ my help. Batman’s help, Red Hood’s help- none of you do! All your shithole deserves is suffering. Now that you did… Fuck Gotham, fuck the Bat, and fuck all Cobblepots.  **Fuck you all!** ”

Penelope Solust closed Oswald Cobblepot’s ears. A truly loud cannonade of rounds came forth. The Rockhopper tried to shoot back, but the gun was blown out of his hand by now. Not a single officer stopped shooting until their mags were empty, hell - some even clicked more than they should have. Joshua’s body was turned into a colander. He stood, unbothered, unopposed. Unbroken, like a real Highlander. One last drag later - he sighed, and let himself loose. Sprang river was rocked by a loud, wet  _ plap. _ Witnessing it all, Oswald held himself back and, when it was done… 

He wailed. A blood-curdling wail it was, as yet another Cobblepot is now lost to the waves. 

***

_ @Gotham Central Television broadcast center, Gotham City: _

Five hours have passed since the infiltration of GCTV. It’s a damn long time for a supporting operation, at least in Theodore’s perspective. The first hour passed fine, he’s supposed to be out by three. Then the second, third - no answer from Joshua. The atmosphere slowly got less tense within the building’s confines. The captives were allowed to go to the bathroom, even. They’re treated rather well, surprisingly enough. Besides the mourning Wesker, still hunched over Dunlow’s dead body. He wasn’t a talkative fellow, anyway. Nobody knew what worth he had for Arnie, since, well… No matter how hard he tried to make Mr. Dunlow alive, he was no replacement to Mr. Scarface. 

Theodore himself went from confident, to angry, to shocked, and then bored. The pale-blue shirt was now unbuttoned almost fully, thus showing a promiscuous amount of skin off, the bags under his eyes intensified in their darkness due to smushed eyeliner, and his jeery face was no longer such. Joshua had more than a hundred missed messages and seventeen missed calls on the private radio he set up for the operation. In fact, he set up the entire network, he’s the one responsible for moving the pawns, as well as keeping the radio silence, and stirring up the entire Batfamily. Why is he suddenly the center of attention? Did Josh… 

Oh no. Joshy couldn’t  _ possibly, _ right? Wait, wait - he’s going to check the records, obviously he couldn’t- “What about Fyodor?”

“He can manage.”

“Well, I know he  _ can _ manage,” Tigress said, “But are you sure he’ll make it out of there?”

“He’s the  _ White fuckin’ Rabbit, _ Arty - of course he will. And even if he won’t, it’ll be easy to write off as a distraction. No one’s going to miss him much, and plus they’ll probably put him into Arkham where none of his claims will be taken seriously. Hell, he can die and it’ll still be a worthy sacrifice. To me.” 

“Not even to you?”

“Nah. He’s useful as long as he isn’t nagging.”

Crock chuckled: “Awh, you cruel bastard! Vlatava did change you, for better or wor-” End last transmission. Seen 5:18 AM. 

White Rabbit didn’t even realize this was played audible to everyone in the studio. Now the guards looked at him in suspicion, most captives - in both anger and understanding. The stream was shut down, silently, with a mere thought of the peculiar metahuman. Both his lithe hands with their cold, long fingers dragged themselves across his hair and grasped at it simultaneously. “So… We’re a distraction,” Theodore mumbled through in a hollow tone, “All of this, all of your sssssuffering, death, and me being the sssstar of my own show for the first time… That’s all a distraction to him.”

“And what the fuck were you thinking, Rabbit?” Perez spoke, through grit teeth and a missing pinkie. 

“We’re here for a show,” one Brigadier added, “T’was expected, but… Shit.”

“Mubbuh ya fouhd reweef uff?” Thorne spoke with a swollen, re-attached tongue. Theodore’s hand clasped over Rupert’s mouth: “Shhh… You shouldn’t talk, or yer tongue will fall out again. Juscht…” 

The tension in the room rose up again. With an awkward exchange of stares between different Brigadiers, one “Nah, fuck it” came from Theodore, as he waved his palm at the captives dismissively. Arnie wailed, Rupert screamed, and the rest simply turned away. Then, their explosive collars snapped off, disarmed. Shocked and confused, Wesker, Thorne and Co felt up their necks, then remained still as the screens turned pink again. 

“Ay-ay-ay, puta, the fuck ya doing ova’ there?!” Guiterrez, the Brigadiers’ new commander, pointed his gun back at the captives. Especially the shaking Ventriloquist. 

“We didn’t come all this way to be fucked over by your pussy ass!”

“Yeah, poor thing - whadya, hate this bitch now? I do too, but I saw ya fawnin’ over him the day before, morricon!”

“I’m not puttin’ it down. Nah. Never. The Revolution lives on.”

“Go ahead,” Theodore laughed in the barrel pointing at his buck-teeth, “Try me, baschtard! Shoot me! You’ll get one more life schentence for what ya did! Meanwhile, I’m not gonna shtick around an’ watch my  _ own  _ dreams of a better future collapse.” 

“...What the fuck are ya talkin’ bout?”

“If you won’t schurrender, I’ll  **make** ya, dumbo. We already lost! How do you not see this, ya street crook?”

“Try ME, fucker, my phone’s switched off!”

“Ooh! Wait. He’s here,” Theodore said, “Hiding in the shadows, thinking of when to interfere. He-he-hee!”

“Considering you did all the job for me, I should give you goons presents - a  **term in Blackgate!** ”

There he is. The imposing figure, clad in metallic-black, with a shining white symbol wedged onto his chest, eyes flickering as he dashed forth. In this chaos, the screens burst open in a flick of Theodore’s wrist, shining with pink scheme-like patterns and most definitely a giveaway in the current darkness. The Bat’s eyes and symbol were there, too, moving around in flashes of gunfire. One by one the rounds stopped firing off, and the sparks stopped flying. The final blow happened even before the emergency lights could be turned on, and there was a loud, audible crack. The vocal cords will need quite some time to recover from the Bat-fist. 

And then there were two. The Rabbit and the Bat. Still in his fit of rage, Batman grabbed Theodore by his shirt and slammed him against the table. It shattered under both their weights. This all felt way too funny, so the Bunny’s giggling almost prompted a second punch to the face. However, with his hands raised and his hennah cooling down, Eagleton looked at those glowing white eyes and the stubble-ridden square jaw with both fear and admiration:

“Ho-HO! Scho that’sch what the Dark Knight isch like!” Theodore added with excitement as the remaining troops dropped their weapons and hunched down onto the floor. The captives’ collars suddenly snapped off, and, with the Bat preparing to lease another punch, as well as possibly ask him the most important question, the White Rabbit shut his eyes and spat out clearly: “The city is safe, I turned their screens off ages ago!”

“ **Where’s everybody else?!** ”

“Right here, Bats! I had nobody else, schwear on my pawsch, luv!” 

Batman visibly raised his brow, but then returned to the usual scowl and laid the White Rabbit face-first onto the floor, bleeding and all.    
“You know, I am pretty damn powerful, and I could take over your suit right now,” he said, “But I don’t think it would solve the issue. May I-”

“ **No.** ”

“But you didn’t let me finish yet!”

“ **I know what you will ask for in advance!** ”

Theodore turned his face up towards the Bat again, raising his brow this time: “No ya don’t! Let’sch face it, I’m more useful to you as an ally rather than a captive, at leascht right now.” 

“ ** _How_** **can you be useful to me?** ” Batman asked, unironically, whilst sitting Eagleton up, “ **You have fulfilled the Commissioner’s demands, now you ought to face justice… In court.** ”

“I can see everything, every _ one, _ uncover their dirty laundry and fix up Gotham’s internet in a few~ The only thing you have to do is uncuff me! If it helps… I’ve always wanted to be a hero, but…”

“ **But what?** ” Batman’s scowl lessened as the White Rabbit hunched over and shook his head, hair awkwardly sliding down onto his face. 

“But… I’ve a poor  _ vision _ of thingsch, Batman. Ya betcha ya weren’t raised by the Hatter, weren’t sold off to the highest bidder. Possibly had a lot of figures you could  _ really _ look up to. I understand there’s injustice in the world, and. With. With the powers I have I- I could try and fix it! Perhaps if… No. No, because it is not about  _ me. _ ”

“ **Yes. Because you are not** **_ready_ ** **to face a life you imagine living,** ” Batman looked down onto the Bunny. He’s tearing up a little. Only a teensy bit. 

“...And I’m well-aware of that! But. I was also, um. Rescued, by Joshua. I went around as a traveler in search of the high life, and… To be fair, he’s not a good leader, either. I did most of his duties, and. And he turned sour a long time ago, I… I thought we were fighting for a  _ better future, _ Batman. Not some, um. Puny vengeance. I thought I  _ meant _ something to him. The signs were obvious, but I chose not to.”

“This is all very romantic, but will you FINALLY throw this fuckwad into jail?!” The cops, upset and ready to kick down on the Rabbit, pushed other prisoners aside, only to be stopped by the Bat’s silently-raised hand. 

“ **...Why, Rabbit? Why did you join his side?** ”

“Because I saw the  _ MacBeth _ in him! And, like Lady MacBeth, I wanted for him to claim what would be righteous! Because I thought… I thought he was changed by what he went through. There is  _ evil  _ for the sake of  _ evil _ in him, and personally? I now wish to undo what I have done.” Theodore sniffed, and rose back to his feet without much help coming from the Caped Crusader. He took a deep breath, shone the hennah of technology for one last time, and let the GCPD barge in through closed doors. 

  
“Lead me away, Batman. I’ll show you what I can do.  _ If  _ you let me show you before Arkham~”


	18. The Question Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go wrong. Things go very, very wrong. At first, the main culprit of these tumultuous days in Gotham City survives! And furthermore - he is found by his idol, who becomes his ultimate disappointment. The White Rabbit is now in Arkham Asylum, and so is Emperor Penguin. There's a new doctor in there, however, and the future of both doesn't look bright. Finally, the big reveal happens, and Oswald Cobblepot continues to suffer in vain.

_ @Robbinsville, Gotham City: _

_ “It’s always noisy in Gotham City. Though, this time - the streets make the right kind of noise. No bullets ricocheting off of concrete, no stone gargoyles getting blasted by the rockets coming from ashore, and most importantly - no pained screams of any side. A city without wails - what a special sound, really. Especially after the war has been won: A war against a tyrant who did not think any of the steps through, driven by vengeance, and nothing but vengeance against his own family.  _

_ That’s what they want for you to think. _

_ This journal has been in my hands for quite a while, you know. When I woke up, I found a couple pages missing. I have no idea for how long I’ve been in this goddamn river, but judging by how my skin looked when I woke up - it sure as fuck has been a while. Regaining consciousness after a couple mags’ worth of lead were shot into you is quite an experience, too. Think half of my spleen is missing, as well as a handful of teeth. Both legs are broken. I crawled through the mud but I don’t really know where I am yet. The fact I’m writing is a miracle. _

_ But I’m rambling on. How I’m feeling right now ain’t the main thing. On the things they want for you to think - the Bat, the Commish, the Cobblepots - I didn’t kill a handful of bastards for nothing. For years I’ve been driven towards eliminating my uncle and the rest of his gaggle, and nothing else. So driven, in fact, I was rendered blind. I mean, I literally can’t see too well in the light, but that’s different. Shit’s been rough. Real rough. All I wanted is to get rid of someone who I thought was responsible for my misfortunes. But truth is - the pain, guilt, and apathy never went away. Clearly I was doing something wrong. Clearly it can’t be the person who I’ve aspired to please all these years ago.  _

_ So here’s the deal. If I live - I’m going to help my family. I’ll care for the family and only for them. Nothing else will be my concern. That’s a personal promise. I’ll make sure Oswald gets whatever he wants whenever he wants, with all the power I have, even my own life. I’ll make it up to him. Someday. I don’t know when, how, and where, but when I do shit - I do shit for real, man. And if not, well… That’s my last recording and I’ll fuck off straight into Satan’s arsehole. Here goes my sobby shit about how I miss Theodore and how I’ll try to make sense out of it and shit but anyway you know the drill I’ll be a changed man and shit like that I’m fuckin hurting mate  _ **_BYEBYEBYE!!!_ ** _ ” _

Joshua’s busy rambling again, as per usual. This was also the last page of his old journal - some fell out on his way to the shore - so there would be no point in continuing the sloppily-ridden text. Damn the adrenalin to all hell - he could barely focus on anything. Blood loss is a bitch. The last thing Rockhopper can remember (and that he didn’t mention in his manifesto) is the fall directly into the water, the concrete-like hardness of it, and the strange green glow that came off of him once his eyes finally closed down and he fell down to Sprang River’s very bottom, at least a mile away from the shore. 

Did the waves bring him on here while he was adrift, or was it something else? 

No time for questions. Cobblepot was crawling to relative safety for quite a while, now, ditching the bulletproof vest, the shoes - anything that kept him weighted down or restrained, or both, even. Oh! The belt. The belt is gonna be really useful. Shit… Oh shit, oh  _ fuck _ \- where are his gunshot wounds? He’s pallid and he feels the bones still rustling around within him as if he’s just a bag of those, but the muscles? The flesh? The skin? They’ve fully healed up, for some unknown reason. Josh’s russet eyes finally went wide-eyed at the sight, as there were still a couple of joints with popped-off hinges.

He bit into the belt, folding it in two beforehand. Then, with his left arm reaching for the right shoulder, he pushed, and then he pushed, and then he pushed more. Until the joint fell back into the hinge with a loud  _ pop _ and a quiet groan. Laying while soaked in water and mud wasn’t the best environment for botched surgeries, but it isn’t the Rockhopper’s first time like that. Just like in the old days, there were no painkillers, no bandages, no nothing. All Josh had is his torn-up shirt, which he trimmed down to ribbons and patched up those shallow cuts that came from the branches he slowly, but surely, crawled through. Fixing oneself on the way isn’t the first time for Cobblepot, either - it really is just like it was. Back in the Balkans. Alone. Abandoned. By everyone. And those that didn’t were killed.

Fuck it’s cold. Coddy sure gets cold in the winter months, as well, but spring’s usually signified by all the snow melting. In Gotham, it’s the last days of March and the snow’s still laying on the ground! Well anyway - the mud was a real savior in this case. A thick coat of it was good protection against infection, too. The one that was left next to the shore, anyway. Gotham’s water contains a bunch of parasites, most probably so, but algae’s good enough. At least, that’s what the Danube had to offer to him whenever he was tossed out of the Catacombs. 

Next came the left ankle. Whatever could be twisted and merged wrong, was twisted and merged wrong. Cobblepot would have to break it, then rearrange it, then tear at the achilles’ tendon and rearrange the entire foot  _ again _ . Another rough bite later, the bones started cracking and the voice of his finally gave into screaming. He didn’t just groan - Joshua  _ wailed _ alongside the nerve endings’ own, until his foot was back in a “normal” position, but bruised, and bleeding from within. 

Rockhopper had to continue hopping forward. Sliding on his bruised stomach akin to a real penguin, as he couldn’t possibly walk without a stick nearby. Josh barely knew where he was, but it’s definitely outside of the Narrows. Judging by the looks of all the buildings far off from a mud-ridden shore, it looks like a nice suburban area of sorts. He crawled, and crawled, until his unfocused eyes encountered a pair of feet - damn, those are some nice, heavy boots on them. Not laced with mud, either - that’s a recent arrival. Josh didn’t even bother looking up. To be fair, he didn’t care. Nor did the stranger whose heel kicked him over to his back. 

Next, that boot’s sole pressed into his bare chest, leaving a  _ clean _ imprint on the mud-ridden, pallid skin. The stranger’s particularly-crimson helmet was off, though its ears and eyes were still glowing. A particularly-crimson bat representing the armor on his chest, a matching stubble, a messed-up cigarette at the corner of his dry, scarred lips, a silver streak going through the front of the messy, raven-black hair… It couldn’t be him, now- No. It’s definitely him. 

“Suppose you don’t share ciggies with wanted convicts, eh mate?”

“You’re right - I don’t.”

“And you came ‘ere for, what? Finishing what the pigs couldn’t?”

“Yeah. But. Looking at you like this, well… I’ll be doing you a favor.”

“Aye. That’s what both of us would want the least.”

“You’re right about that, too. So - what’s the plan?”

Jason Todd didn’t respond this time. Instead, he leaned down, and put his foot off Joshua’s chest. The blue eyes of pure ice met those of fiery brown, almost hazel in nature. Cobblepot isn’t trying to be the hero here, so he’s still grimacing from extreme pain in his ankle. When a barrel pressed up against his forehead, he gave a simple nod to the Red Hood. He’s ready. Honestly, nothing can faze him any longer. Not even the presence of his  _ idol _ , not even that he’s potentially going to be killed by him. 

“...You know, kid - for someone this twiggy and ghoulish, y’sure did a lotta shit. Back home and here.”

“What can I say - special needs since the pram an’ all the way up to the Air Force years.”

“Uh-huh. What’s it you have in your hand?”

“My journal. Don’t touch it, it’s personal-”

“Ah quit it, Cobblepot - like I give a fuck about your angry doodles and kill lists. C’mon. Give it to me.”

And thus, the Rockhopper did exactly as Red Hood told him. Can’t be a disappointment to the one he looked up for all these years, after all. Jason read through it carefully, surprisingly so. “Ah, so you did have a change of heart,” he said, then tossed the diary right into a puddle. Josh turned back onto his stomach, crawled forward, picked it back up, and stuffed it into his pants’ pocket. 

“When I look at you, kid...” Todd said as he walked in front of Cobblepot, forcing him to crawl further and further forward, “...I see myself. To some extent. No one knows why you did all this shit to ole’ lady Gotham, no one knows how you managed to, like, survive, either. Twice now.”

“Quelle surprise - I’m one lively piece o’ shit.”

“Well so am I. So it leaves us in a tough spot, Cobblepot: Your life ain’t worth a cent right now, since everyone else thinks you’re dead. By killing you I’ll give you a favor. By letting you live I’m playing a real dangerous game, ‘cause I don’t trust your vulture-lookin’ ass.”

“There’s one thing you could do…” And that’s when Joshua looked up, his eyes finally lit up with interest. Red Hood already had his helm on. “...Am I thinking what you’re thinking, Hood?”

“It’s Renegade now, kid. See this building over there?” Jason pointed at one of the many Gothamite spires - except this one had a bright-red beam at the very top. “Post up there - I take you in. Get caught, or get shot at - you’re on your own. We can’t be seen together, so you best hide all the way through.”

“Wait… You want me there? By what time?!”

“I’un give a shit. I’ll track you down, anyway. How d’ya think I found you in Kane County, right here?”

“Right, it all makes sense, but…” Josh pointed at his ankle, then: “...How the fuck am I supposed to-”

“Don’t care.”

“We’re a team now?!”

“We ain’t no team, unless y’make it there.”

“You’re supposed to help me! It hurts like a bitch!”

“None of my god-damn business. You want it - make it happen. S’ your only chance!” And now, Jason began slowly walking away, tossing all the sticks out of Joshua’s possible directions. Pissed and confused, Cobblepot started crawling, and he crawled at a much faster pace, but still couldn’t catch up with a walking man in front of him. 

“Guh-  **Get back here! Pick me up! Fuck’s sake, mate- I said get back!** ”

“Hop on, Rockhopper!” Renegade’s middle finger reigned supreme, “And that, I say, is what you fuckin’ deserve.”

The smugness, the bile of his… Josh couldn’t take it. Although he moved forward, he could neither see clearly, nor catch any tracks of where exactly Jason disappeared. It was an open field - how in the fuck did he manage to pull it off? Oh. Joshua Cobblepot screamed - but that scream, at last, was not of apathy. 

It was a scream of joy and rage, all at once, as the red beam shone like a Polar Star before him.

***

_ @Arkham Asylum, Gotham City: _

My oh  _ my _ \- how exciting it must be, to be finally put in with all the infamous criminals and the worst of the worst of Gotham! Theodore’s excited. Are you? You should be! He’s being kept away from everyone else, after all. Being straightjacketed, being cuffed to the wheelchair, and being forced to wear this silly-looking “crown” of an anti-static helmet sure provided a false sense of safety. Simply  _ being _ here was the highest of honors to the White Rabbit. He’s in one of the most infamous prisons in America, and it sure as hell seems more comfortable than Ravenscar, already!

At least they have lights in here. Those that don’t constantly irritate the iris, that is. 

The waiting room was right next to the gen-pop “cages”. Weird, funny, adorable faces popped up here and there. For now, Theodore could not spot anyone as infamous as Eddie or Byron, but- Oh! There’s Byron! Byron Maredith, Merrymaker, in person, sitting there and reading the newspaper as if it’s the Iliad’s original copy. With his glasses broken and his nose bandaged, it’s clear he doesn’t have as much of a reputation within as he does without. To Theodore, at least. Brainwashing an entire gaggle of average joes into a Joker-obsessed cult? One has to have  _ talent  _ for that!

Another prisoner was soon pulled up close to him. A much larger one at that. Dressed in similar gray robes, straightjacket, and wheelchair, yet instead of a helm - he had a muzzle wrapped around his maw. Iron bars prevented him from opening up his mouth too wide, and yet - it’s still there. Visible. With its bark-like skin and yellow fangs hidden beneath it. The White Rabbit’s not in the least bit intimidated, but instead - expresses his childlike curiosity by leaning into him, instead. Ignatius raised his brow and, to his own surprise, didn’t snarl at the weird creature situated right next to him and violating his privacy. 

“Can I… Help you?” Ogilvy’s deep voice emerged through the muzzle. 

“Mmm… Y’smell like white roses. I love it, but - why’s that?” The Bunny asked out of genuine curiosity, his lilac eyes glancing right into the crimson of the Emperor Penguin’s own. 

“Ah, that? It’s simply my physique. Aren’t you-”

“Rockhopper’s sidekick? Well, yes. But not any longer. I was ditched, just like ev’rybody else.”

“And don’t you have a lisp?”

“An artificial one. Methinksch isch cute~ But other than that, no. I can talk normally.”

“Please do,” Ogilvy’s head canted towards Eagleton, “Or else I might just go rabid and have rabbit as a meal.”

“Ohoho, you sound so melodic!” Theodore added in fascination, “I feel like we could be good friends~”

“I doubt it. I’m only here for a week or so, ‘cause I can’t return to my “normal” self for some odd reason. Meanwhile, you… I think your sentence is grand enough.”

“Eheh, yeah-”

“Pardon me for the intrusion, but I wonder…” Ignatius stopped in his tracks and leaned back, just so he won’t be noticed talking to a designated dangerous inmate: “...Why  _ did  _ you pick the least successful of Oswald’s gaggle to work for? Surely you knew of somebody else to utilize your skills for the better. Isn’t that what you want?”

Theodore sighed. He leaned back, himself, and stared off into the void while the two of them were closely observed by one particularly-haughty orderly: “I liked his ideas. At first. I thought he was going to fulfill them. Plus, he saved me, and I was blinded by my own sense of honor to try and help someone else. Someone  _ but _ that selfish piece of shit.”

“Well. At least he’s dead in a ditch, now.”

“Dead in a ditch he is, aye.”

“You know… If you get parole, you can always work for me, Rabbit.”

“Oh I’ll  _ consider _ it, Mister Emprah~ Plus, I’ll break out of here, anyway.”

The two of them were suddenly separated by a rough push forward from Theodore’s side. Ignatius remained seated in place, whereas the Rabbit was swiftly moving away from him. Alas, they could not wave goodbye, but Iggy tried to nod and smile through the restrictive iron bars. Eagleton continued to grin as he was pushed into the individual cell, where a particular person was waiting for him, behind a screen of hardy, bulletproof glass.

This psychiatrist looked… Interesting: She was not tall, but moderately-imposing. Visibly well-built, even through the rather discomforting barrier, even through the lab coat of hers. The badge read: “Linda Bolton, PhD,” and something else Theodore didn’t pay much mind to. Actually, she’s quite similar to Ozzy’s handmaid! Except she’s got overgrown bangs and that weird-arse lobcut sort of haircut, as well as ugly, too-thin glasses which have no practical use. Yeah, she wears them to look smart, he  _ bets _ she does! Though, Linda also doesn’t look too smarmy or haughty. Her smile’s reserved, but pleasant enough, and her whole look  _ oozes _ with a smug, yet respectable sort of power. 

“Ahh yes, the recent arrival. Welcome home. I’m Dr. Bolton. I’ll be working with you from this point on, if that’s fine with you, Mr… Sokoloff.” 

Dr. Bolton’s voice was rather monotone, one that could put even the Bunny to sleep as he leaned forth and started shutting his eyes immediately upon notice. Did she notice that? Oh, she totally noticed that! Because when Theodore opened his eyes again, she was not there, but on  _ his  _ side of the glass. This means he can look at her face for longer than he should and annoy her more: Although Linda has a stern face with dense jaws and a small bit of freckles on the cheeks, her smile doesn’t seem all-too sinister. If not for the overgrown bangs and the butchy haircut, she would almost look normal! But since she isn’t, they might as well bond together. Oh. Oh she’s holding a remote. This could go-

It didn’t go too well. Theodore’s eyes were set alight by a current that ran through his temples. So his crown was capable of electrocuting him at the push of a button.  _ Kinky. _

“Since this is our first meeting, I’ll try to be frank with you,” she said, “Mr. Eagleton. Your attention, your… Abilities, and the information you possess is very important to my superior. If you allow me to study your mind without any obstruction-”

“Can you ah… Tone the language down a bit? I don’t underschtand what yer schayin’,” Theodore’s grin was met with an acid-like stare… And another light shock. 

“We will work on that,” Linda continued, “In essence - if you won’t interrupt my observations and experiments - we’ll be a good team. I’ll  _ even _ let you walk out of here every once in a while. But if you won’t, and if you try to break out…”

“I’m gonna be murdered? PWEASE tell me I’m gonna get murdered!”

“Murdered? Oh no,” Dr. Bolton shook her head, but did grant another tingling shock to the Rabbit’s brain, “You’re too valuable of a subject to get rid of so quickly… As my boss says. Personally, I see you as nothing but another criminal. A  _ bratty _ one at that. And I enjoy breaking brats down, so… For your own sake. Be on your best behavior.”

Theodore’s head was steaming. He got quite worn out by the static and what was supposed to be entry-level torment. He hasn’t eaten in a few days, so this might be the case for such passability. The mechanism is too basic for him to take hold of, and the remote’s way out of his reach due to the straightjacket. In spite of one cruel bitch sitting right across him, the Bunny kept smiling through his mild pain.

“My oh  _ my,  _ you seem like- AGH- schomeone schtraight out of-  _ ngh- _ Pandora’s Box! Have ya been there? I’ve heard there are plenty of good toysch~”

Zap. Zap. Zap. Zap. The zapping continued as Linda’s face grew more and more tense. At last, Theodore’s pained wail made Dr. Bolton stop. “I don’t joke around,” she said, “There are no cameras to get into to save dirt on me, Mr. Eagleton. They have been shut down a long, long time ago. I genuinely despise the likes of you, and believe me - I  _ will  _ do everything in my power to make sure you suffer for what you have done, in order to get good results and your eventual rehabilitation. I am the one who speaks here. I am the one in  _ charge. _ I already know a handful of your weak spots, Mr. Eagleton, and I suggest you reconsider your behavior.”

Dr. Bolton rose from her seat. The White Rabbit slumped down onto the table in order to try and cool down, his eyes visibly hazy and lost, yet not quite fearing of the tyrant before him. Only then Linda smiled. Finally. Slow, but eventual subjugation works all the time. As well as an upfront approach. Just like uncle taught her. With that said, she left the chamber entirely, as Theodore’s eyes scanned for any chunk of any data or tech around the isolation chamber. 

Nothing. Not a single thing that’s not blocked by the sturdy walls of what feels like lead. And the crown of madness does drive him crazy. Oh boy - he’s getting tired, and… His head hurts. Arkham Asylum certainly welcomed him unlike Ravenscar did, but instead of beatings - he received shocks. And at this point - the Bunny isn’t sure he’s sticking around for much longer.

***

_ @Iceberg Lounge, Gotham City: _

Night. The blue lights around Tricorner shone bright again, though the orange lights of a concrete jungle in front of it were glowing just as brightly. Gotham’s status quo is returned, but at what cost? The Penguin is right next to the Riddler, alone, as both Bullock and Lark are having a day off on their bosses’ accords. 

Edward cannot stand this. Seeing Oswald in shambles, that is. Time and time again has the city he loves the most turned against him, his closest relatives became bitter rivals and harrowing enemies, and the wealth the Cobblepots built for generations lost and found. Time and time again. Maybe it’s he who taught Oswald to rise back up, in spite of everything crumbling around him, in spite of all riddles being solved by brats and cheaters!- He’s rambling. In his mind, he is rambling to himself again. A Cobblepot has been hurt again, a Cobblepot’s makeup is runny, and a Cobblepot doesn’t take relatives dying well. 

Ever.

“Come on now, Ozzy. It’s gonna be okay.”

“I…” Oz stammered, leaning further into Edward’s cold hands: “...I have no idea if I will be, Eddy. Not anymore. I-I can’t be  _ sure, _ I will be all-right. Not after what I saw, what…  _ Legacy  _ I am to have.”

Nygma’s bright-green eyes traveled down the mess of a bird, and the Riddler then dug his hand right beneath the overcoat: “Oswald… Your legacy is gorgeous. How can you-”

“How?!” Oz continued, “How is it, in any way, gorgeous?! You’re older than me, you should know better when to… To say such things! My oldest son? Man-Bat, locked up in Arkham. My nephew? Fucking dead in a  _ ditch _ ‘cause I didn’t look for him good enough. Ethan? Ethan works for  _ cops. _ What Cobblepot works with cops?!”

“Well, I know a guy-”

“It’s  _ different. _ I left him on his own! And so was Martin… Oh, Martin, now he’s under Ogilvy and I have  _ zero _ leeway… I’m responsible for my own misfortunes. Life can never be easy for a-”

“Oswald…” Eddy’s hand dug in deeper, and his surprisingly-warm breath hit Oswald’s tear-stained cheek: “...You did good enough. At least you were a father to, um.  _ Most of them. _ ”

A knock rang across the spacious chamber. Oswald was ready to get up, but Edward stopped him in his tracks, left a pair of tissues in his lap, and moved in to open up the door, himself. Lark was behind the door, and so was a particularly upset-looking figure of Ethan Cobblepot. 

“Mr. Nygma, it’s Ethan. He wants to, uh.”

“See Oswald,” Ethan continued hastily, “We need to talk, Eddy. Move aside, please.”

“I don’t think Oswald is ready-”

“I don’t care,” Ethan then gently pushed Edward by the shoulder and stepped into Oswald’s office, much to the disappointment of both Penny and Eddy. 

“Why am I always interrupted,” he said, adjusting his glasses and shaking his head. 

There was a small ottoman right next to the antique-looking writing desk. The office itself is dimly-lit, and it feels rather cold inside - not just because of the temperature, but because of the cold, collagen lights which shone down from the candelabra in candles’ stead. Ethan loomed over his father, holding himself back from lashing out as much as he did. Two of their gazes met, and Edward simply… Sidelined. Ready to call for reinforcements if this “conversation” went down south. 

“You don’t… Look too good, dad.”

“I know, son. I don’t have to look good, at least for now. Nor do I have to go out.”

“You have to. And you have to attend the funeral. They didn’t find the body.”

“I  _ can’t _ , Ethan,” Oswald’s voice trembled as he spoke, “I didn’t sleep for three nights, because every time I try to… I see his face!”

Ethan, on the other hand, continued looming over the Penguin and exhaling loudly through his nose: “Poor you. Crying over absolutely preventable catastrophes that you yourself have brought onto this wicked city.”

Cobblepots’ eyes met again. This time, Oswald is seething as much as Blacksun does. Without them noticing both of Eddy’s hands resting on their slouching shoulders. 

“It was,” Oz finally answered, “I didn’t  _ look _ for him hard enough.”

“I know! I know everything about what you did and what you did not do, dad! What about Ogilvy? Martin? Me? What stopped you from raising  _ us _ normally?”

“You don’t need to-”

“Yes I do.”

“Ethan, I can’t-”

“ **Yes you fucking can!** ” The only proper Cobblepot heir grabbed the family patriarch by the lapels of his jacket and pushed the Riddler aside. He slammed Oswald right onto his desk, all while Edward’s monotone voice could be heard calling in the guards… Much to the walkie-talkie being destroyed by a powerful laserbeam seconds after. Ethan’s suit was upgraded to a tee, for sure. No wonder he kicked Ogilvy and Joshua back so easily, and now loomed over the flightless bird like a blond vulture.

“Answer me, Dad! I want answers!”

“I won’t answer shit! I don’t have to!”

“You’ll go to Joshua's funeral, I don’t care what you want or how you’re feeling, you have to pay respects! We’re still family!”

As Oswald was shaken up, he hissed and clacked his teeth right next to Ethan’s nose:  _ “Do not force me to look at my own mistakes, you’re not even part of it.” _

That’s when both Edward and Ethan held their jaws open. Entirely confused, Blacksun took a couple of steps away from Oswald, who remained laying on the desk, absolutely mortified by what he has just said. 

“I… What?” Ethan’s voice trembled, as well.

“Nothing,” Ed stepped in, “Oswald is a mess right now. That’s why I tried to protect the Lounge alongside Lark, but of course you’d barge in at the worst moment.”

“There’s no worst moment - we’ve got to get to the… I. I don’t know anymore. What did he mean?”

“I told you he meant nothing.”

“Am I… Who am I?”

Ethan’s breathing patterns intensified, as Oswald sat up and planted himself back into the armchair. He poured himself some bourbon, and pursed his lips. There’s no going back from this. In these circumstances, truth would be better. There’s nothing more hurtful than truth, right now. 

“Iggy came way before all of you. He’s just a kid who I thought would be my right-hand man. At least for much longer than he was. And. And he was like a son to me - for the first time in a while, I felt like family’s come back. A more  _ ideal _ family. Then he betrayed me. You know the drill. Then Joshua started growing up. I didn’t notice him. Not that Jason Cobblepot, his dad, and I, didn’t try to maintain contact. Then… Then came you. A small, blond boy. An actual son. But not mine - one of a man I truly loved for all these years. One of a man standing right next to you.”

“So…” Blacksun blacked out. His eyes were now set on the pensive-looking Riddler: “...You mean. You mean Edward… Is. He. Wha- How? How did this happen?”

“As you know,” Oz continued, “Your mom was a waitress back in the Lounge before you and all the hassle. She worked in Pandora’s Box on the weekends, and Eddy… He came there. Literally. Then, Christie disappears. For about a year. And then she brings you to Eddy. Eddy’s lost, he doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know how to raise a god-damn child! So I uh. I took you in. For a couple months. And Martin. But Martin was a gift to a friend worthy of him, and you, well…” 

Ethan barely held back tears. His hands rapidly clasped at the prosthetics and the make-up over them, tearing them apart and demonstrating just how scarred his face was. To both Ed and Oswald. The latter did not turn away - finally, he saw his son, truly and utterly, before him.

“...Your mom wanted to move elsewhere. Away from Eddy. From Gotham. It was dangerous here, still is! There was no love between your mom and the god-damn Riddler, but... I did cherish Christie, and I wanted to give something to you. A chance! A chance to move away from all this mess! Virginia, Portland, Star City, Burnside, and you still chose to come back. Twice. Even after I accepted you back, you threw yourself under the bus for me. For what? You got roasted in your own suit, and I couldn’t recover from it! I wanted to see you as a real Cobblepot, and you… You acted foolishly. Like your dad back in the day. And. Even though I may not be your real dad, Ethan…”

“You’re still my boy, aren’t you?”

There’s nothing more to be said. Ed’s standing there, watching tears roll down Ethan’s cheeks and down into his mouth where it is hollow. Oswald finishes his glass of bourbon in a single rough swig and wipes his entire face with a stained white glove. And Ethan. Poor boy. He’s been trying his best, and he still does, but. Both of the role models, both of his fathers, have now revealed themselves to be nothing but frauds and deserters when it came to his care. The only thing he asked of Edward was:

“Why?”

And the Riddler did not respond. For once, he had a question left unanswered. He watched the soul die out in his own creation, unable to express anything but a heavy, shaky sigh. 

“Both of you. Please. Come to the funeral. W-We will talk later.” Ethan didn’t take long to storm out of the office, and leave both Oswald and Edward in an ear-piercing silence. 

“What… Do we do? Now that he knows?” Oswald asked, but Edward detached himself entirely, and stepped over to the entrance. 

“I’ll need a plan. Talk later,” He replied, and disappeared. His Riddleman is now gone, as well. And, after what felt like a fresh return to having an actual family, the Penguin is, once again, hollow. With many questions left. With all of his offspring suffering a miserable fate. With most of his actual friends leaving him behind. After all he’d sacrificed to get to this point, he is, once again… 

Alone. 


	19. Bread, Blood, Roses, and Rooks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the start, there is a funeral of Joshua Cobblepot. His second funeral, in fact, and for the second time - there's an empty casket to be buried. Oswald is in grief and shambles. And, to add insult to injury - the mistakes of his past keep catching up to him. 
> 
> Then, the Hatter's Haberdashery is broken into! By a welcome, yet unexpected guest: Ethan is going through an identity crisis as he learns of his true lineage. Jervis pushes him forth to a new beginning, though, it's not quite clear where it might lead the young and deeply-hurt Nygma heir.
> 
> Finally - Joshua Cobblepot is alive! Barely. And he's fulfilling the first mission Jason gave him. Barely. He meets with another man in shambles after the Sprang Bridge Skirmish - the Ventriloquist, who is, too, going through an identity crisis. Although his secret is kept safe, the Rockhopper finally breaks his cover, but manages to fulfill his task in time. What waits for him in actual training, however, is still under a veil of mystery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * - translated from Yiddish: "No matter what they say about you, Joshua of Codburgh, and no matter what you think of me - I cherished you. And I miss you. Rest well, for you have given your people the bread and roses they needed."

_ @Gotham Cemetery, Kane County: _

April 1st. What a memorable date. Not only because it’s exactly the time where most trees in Gotham start to blossom, or the holiday on which the Joker is most active, but also because of one man’s funeral. A seemingly-despicable man, a man quite weak of mind, a very  _ young _ man at that: Joshua Cobblepot. Although his body was never found, he was presumed dead by most official sources, and therefore - the vast majority of Gothamites, themselves. It’s the usual story - someone vanishes, is never discovered, then abandoned and never spoken of thereafter. Except… Oswald’s been through this before. 

Indeed, the empty casket was simply re-buried into Joshua’s old grave, the tombstone’s date now changed to March 22nd. Leaving the casket empty simply felt… Wrong. It always did. There’s always a chance Joshua might still be alive. His boy, his boy that he’s neglected for all these years, his boy he hoped would be raised better away from Gotham’s soot, was still kicking somewhere close to Cape May downstream. 

The sun shone down through narrow openings in the steel-colored, heavy clouds. The casket’s wood was soon covered by wet, muddy soil dug up by the Penguin’s yes-men. Only a handful of allies (them being the Riddler, Ethan, Lark, Zsasz, and Two-Face) were allowed to come to the funeral. Others would simply desecrate the tomb, since the opinion about the Rockhopper hasn’t died down, still. Thanks to the media and that bitch Vicki Vale, for the most part. They have desecrated his image, already - perhaps it’s best to leave the tombstone enclosed, away from the public eye. There are beautiful forests around Kane County and the Cemetery, after all… No, no. It stays next to the family crypt. As an act of respect for the dead nephew.

No matter what anyone said, Oswald’s in grief. Nothing purple, nothing yellow, red or gray - only black, with the exceptions being his white shirt and gloves. On his orders, so did the yes-men. Not like Harvey or Penny wore anything  _ besides _ black and white, for that matter, but Edward had to be convinced a great deal to be respectful of the Rockhopper’s second funeral. Most brought simple gifts of lament - white chrysanthemums, to be specific. Oswald, on the other hand, left a whole loaf of challah bread with his right hand and a single red rose on the now filled space before his tombstone. Oz unveiled a paper with his last goodbyes, but tossed it aside the moment after. Instead, he put himself down before the grave and spoke: 

_ “Nit keyn enin vos zey zogn vegn ir, Ihushe fun Kodburg, aun keyn enin vos ir trakhtn vegn mir - ikh tsherisht ir. Aun ikh benk nokh dir. Ru gezunt vayl ir hot gegebn deyn mentshn di broyt aun royzn vos zey darfn.*” _

With that done, he rose. The funeral’s officially over. Penelope looked at Oswald from above and asked whether she could get back to her duties with her eyes. Oz nodded, while Edward remained by his side. Victor and Harvey had to go, too - Cobblepot doesn’t mind. They’re good friends, but they have their own deeds to attend to, and vigilantes to run from. Edward? He’s someone  _ very _ dear and special. He may stay. He may witness him shed a tear again. He may hear his sobs. Even as Oswald felt unwanted eyes spying on him. Ethan noticed that, too, but went away as soon as Oz was done. Now the Penguin’s not afraid. He’s not afraid of the press spewing their rotten garbage over him, or even being shot in the face by a certain crimson bastard the second time. 

He let them watch his suffering, that he, perhaps indirectly so, unleashed unto himself.

“Well… From my point of view, we did what we could,” Edward said out of the blue.

Oswald looked up at him, as well, with a horrible pink-eye beneath the monocle: “And from  _ my _ point of view, we didn’t do nearly enough.  _ I  _ didn’t. All I’ve ever tried to be is be a good relative. A family man. And yet I’m always at my worst when it comes to having one...”

“That you are,” A low, guttural voice came from behind. Hot breath hit both Oz and Ed’s necks, all of a sudden. A breath stinking of cheap, dollar-store coffee; it’s Bullock. Out of the hospital. Oz figured it’s him for all the wrong reasons - his pace, his voice, everything about him screamed of both anger and disappointment without even glancing at that rounded face of his. And, since he’s about as tall as Edward, and about as massive as he - the sight of him right in front of them two sure was an intimidating one.

“I hope you remember, Oswald,” Harv continued, “That you were the one that started all of this.”

“All of what?” Ed interrupted.

“All the mess that happened in Gotham City. ‘Fore the Bat, ‘fore massive gang wars an’ metahumans an’ shit. Back when errything was fine, an’ we didn’t have to get our asses burnt to a crisp, or our tongues cut off by deranged killers or some petty fuckin’ crime lords.”

“Hey now that was extra-”

“Shut up, Nygma.”

“-Always interrupted…”

Oswald’s eyes squinted at him, and his teeth grit as he held himself back from a violent outburst. He was being watched, after all. He knew it from the start. “What…” He paused, “...Why are you here again, Harvey? This isn’t Penny visitation hours-”

“And  _ you _ shut up!” Bullock’s tone suddenly raised up, but became smooth and wavering as he continued: “Yer bird ass isn’t the only one that’s capable of losin’ many dear people to it, aight?! Lookin’ at the numbers, I’m startin’ to think you’re the core of most my problems, Ozzy. You  _ still _ owe me! For Fish, and for  _ ditching me, _ for using me like a fuckin’... Like a fuckin’-”

“Cumrag. I get it Harvey-”

“No you fuckin’ don’t!” The Detective without his badge grabbed at Oswald's funeral dress, as Edward calmly pointed his walking stick at him, and so did Oswald’s umbrella at his head. Nevertheless, Bullock continued: “Your bitch-ass nephew killed Montoya. Your bitch-ass dipped me when ya no longer needed me! An’ then you move in with  _ this _ green-bean-lookin’ faggot? You broke me! And you keep doing it time and time again!” 

As Bullock stopped shaking him up, Oz lowered the umbrella, and Edward lowered his stick, as well. The Riddler’s eyes were full of curiosity, but also - of genuine understanding, although his face didn’t express anything remotely similar to such. “I know,” he said, “What it’s like to be abandoned. What it’s like to be alone, with your mind racing, overthinking possibilities and outcomes of every action. Detective Bullock, if you’ve come to dispose of us both - I suggest you do it quickly, because otherwise - you’re going to be recorded, reported, and your life can go quite downhill. Oswald and I understand your situation - hell, Oswald tried to help you with all he had, but if you hurt him in any possible way… I’ll fucking  _ ruin you. _ ”

Harv smiled. Then, letting go of Ozzy’s lapels, he wiped the sweat off his face and chuckled. Loudly, profusely. “Yeah uh. I got a bit hot-headed there - I’m not here to kill you. Unlike you shits, I obey the law, an’ enforce it, for that matter. I came ‘ere to tell you that both of you fuckin’  _ suck, _ and I hope y’get caught on sumthin’ real heavy an’ rot in jail fer the rest of yer days. The only person who’s left in my life is Jim, an’ yer responsible for half of it, Ozzy! So, I’ll do anything to getcher ass back into the bin whenever this shit will be over,  _ if  _ it will be over.” And with these words said, Harv simply walked away. Nothing of value was lost, besides a key police officer still working in the field. 

“Fucking hell…”

“What a fuckin’ asshole, Oz. And you dated a cop?”

“For a time, yeah. Briefly. We knew fish, we loved her, then we fell in love for one another, but it washed off as soon as he found out who really whacked her.”

“Yeah. Suppose y’can’t date someone who killed your ma’am all those years ago.”

“Ya nearly killed the entire city I personally funded the rebuilding of a couple times. Look at us bein’ doves over my nephew’s missing dead body.”

“Danger’s always charming, isn’t it?”

“So is knowledge. You’re smart, and I like you for it. If only you didn’t bitch and moan about it every five minutes~”

“Well you know it wouldn’t be a Nygma-brand trap if I weren’t~”

The Penguin and the Riddler. A match made in the Purgatory. They’re chuckling, whilst Oswald cried only moments ago. The mood couldn’t sink any lower, especially with Bullock’s loud and angry breakdown, but… Somehow, Oz felt like it’s going to be okay. For the first time in  _ months. _ Ever since his throat started acting up, Ed was by his side. He didn’t know why, nor did he want to question his motifs - he’ll let himself believe it’s love,  _ true _ love, and only get disappointed later. Much like Bullock was with him long before the two of them paired up and worked together. 

“Hm. Mhm. So. Joshua’s… Dead, maybe. Let’s get back to the lounge before we catch a cold.”

“I’m never cold, Eddy, darling. You know that.”

“I was talking about  _ me _ .”

“I told you to put your jacket on!”

“Well it’s on!”

They argued as they stepped out of the Cemetery’s gate, leaving it behind in a busy clutter among themselves. White chrysanthemums symbolize strength, but this isn’t  _ worthy _ to Joshua. Wouldn’t be if he’s still around. Whenever he will find that grave, perhaps, he’ll find the symbol of what he originally fought for. 

Bread and roses. Bread, and roses.

***

_ @Warehouse District, Gotham City: _

Jervis Tetch managed to organize quite a life for himself after coming out of Arkham in the beginning of this year. In only a quarter of such, he’s obtained numerous assets (which he couldn’t really use) from the delightful Mr. Cobblepot, whose generosity knows no bounds to those who help his family! That said, the Mad Hatter stopped being all- _ too _ mad, recently. And Oswald wasn’t nearly as generous as he was making him to be.

A cramped townhouse next to the Docklands cost as much as his manicured thumb did. Low prices are convenient, however! This means the cops don’t quite venture towards the area, not nearly as often as they do in Old Gotham up the road. Furthermore - the spot’s rather lucrative! It has a steady flow of both people and cars, and it’s visible from both crossing streets, as it’s located on their corners. Overall, the Hatter is more-than content with his little hut - for he turned its rotten inwards and outwards into a nifty bodega right next to the town’s center. 

The influx of hipsters with a deathwish has been a long-running gag in Gotham City, but, to his own surprise - Jervis turned this joke into profit; the entire first floor was decked-out with a teensy lounge and a proper service board, as well as a tiny nook in which Tetch worked on his suits and hats while not serving tea or pot brownies. The townhouse’s first floor was entirely his, and the rooftop was transformed into a lush garden Ivy sometimes hung out in. Hence why he took care of his plats well! And, of course - Jervis took good care of everything he had! Thus, haughty customers from up there, in Downtown, flocked around the door by this time of late morning.  _ Usually. _

It’s an unusual day in Gotham, however. The traffic from up the road can still be heard, but there are very little people on the streets. A lot had to move over to the Cemetery, in order to say their last goodbyes to their relatives. Especially the Narrows people. What was curious about this peace and quiet, however, is that the first floor’s window was left wide open. 

“My plants!” Tetch gasped, and fumbled around with the key to the front door. Upon opening it, he found that… All of his equipment was left intact. But none of the cookie dough he left in the mixer at about six in the morning. Though already concerned with the strange circumstances, the Hatter still stopped to take a good look at the Haberdashery, perhaps to see if nothing was missing: 

Admittedly, Jervis took quite an affinity for plants. All of them were intact. Grapevines lined the ceiling, alongside wood and a couple of eco-friendly lamps. Ahha! It was all Ivy’s doing! Which, indeed, was a very pleasant gift from someone he found unapproachable. Same thing for all the flowers, which provided a rich, decadent smell upon closer approach. The furniture was textbook cottagecore, with plenty of wood and antiquities thrown into the mix. And elaborate Victorian decor, of course. It had to be there! Otherwise, there will be little atmosphere to be had in this little nook of nature within all those jungles of concrete.

Suddenly - footsteps. First floor. Someone is there. Pacing. Then they stop. “H… Hello?” His shrill voice called out for a stranger above, “If you’re still here, whoever you may be - there are more leftovers in the fridge! Though, I suppose you have that already figured out, uhm. I can bring more food! If someone is there.” 

No answer. Jervis decided to move up the stairs, though, he did grab a log-prodding stick, for good measure. His steps were slow, quiet, and careful. He didn’t wish to make anyone upset, but also wished to be somewhat prepared for a home invasion; to his surprise, it wasn’t one - or, at least, the intruder was not of any danger or malicious intent. 

It’s Ethan. Crying. He came without his suit, though, the makeup was still on. To this point, Jervis is surprised how not-runny and sticky it is. Curiouser and curiouser. Without saying a word, the Hatter dropped his weapon, and walked over to the techie among Cobblepots just as quietly. One look on his face, as well as a piece of paper in his hand, was enough to leave him just as upset as the young man right next to him. It’s a birth certificate, that paper is. And it reads:  _ “Ethan Bromwell Nygma.” _

There was no point in asking where he found it, or, better - how he found out. Right now, it would only make the young Mr.  _ Nygma  _ all the more upset. So Jervis simply… Sat there, and let his newfound ally cry his eyes out. Being a Nygma wasn’t that big of a tragedy for a non-lucid man like him, but for Ethan? It might be. He has no idea why, but… He’s here to support him, at least! Oh.  _ Ohh right. Oswald was supposed to be his father- _ Right. Jervis’s eyes matched Ethan’s in color. He studied them intrusively, as if completely oblivious to the entire situation. 

Blacksun finally turned his head to the side, to stare him down, saying nothing in the process. The two of them had a mutual understanding… Well, not really. Ethan’s eyes were full of grief, anger, and regret. The Hatter’s eyes spoke nothing of the sort - they were cheerful. Always dumb, and too damn  _ happy. _ Seeing Ethan like this certainly wavered the madman’s confidence, however. Soon enough, he faltered, the happy cheery stare now became obsolete, and his back sulked down, making him appear even tinier than he actually was, especially in comparison to the tall, blond,  _ handsome  _ Riddlerkid. 

To Ethan’s surprise, he was silent for a good while. And he did let him sob for much longer than expected. Though, as soon as he fell entirely silent, himself, Jervis spoke. He spoke in a serious tone, and in as deep of a voice as his could get: 

“This might sound akin to something rather hard to believe, Blacksun. In fact, it would be  _ very  _ hard to believe, because it’s coming out of my mouth, after all, but. I may understand how you feel. I may understand that… You’ve been lied to. That you’ve been disposed of. Personally, I wasn’t even  _ supposed  _ to be in America - both my mom and dad come from an old land called Rhodesia! But. They left me here. They chose to live their life without me. And I can’t say for certain what they were thinking when they did that, but I’m sure I wasn’t their top priority.”

“I don’t need your sob story, Tetch,” Ethan replied, sniffling.

“Ah-ah! Let me finish,” Jervis continued, “The point of it isn’t just to share my story, even though I appreciate a good listener. The point of it is, to make  _ you _ realize what I have! And it's that your name, or your family, don’t always define who you really are. If you had bad parents - be better! If you had good parents - well. Still try to be better than them. And when you have none - that’s even more freedom! You can embrace madness and not be judged for it.  _ Or  _ you can embrace the traits you’ve inherited, perfect them, and turn them into a  _ tool~ _ ”

Ethan rose from his seat, and loomed over the Hatter from this point on. His face barely contained the strain of anger and the blush that came with it: “Assets, tools… What the hell are you talking about? What tools can I put to use besides ones of my own? Ones you saw at my hideout?!”

“Your brain!” Jervis gawked, “You’re a  _ Nygma. _ Tough cwap not being one of the birds, but stop caring! Or, at least, act like you don’t care. Because they’ll simply laugh at your misfortunes. Use, your brain. I consider you a buddy, Ethan - remember what I told you minutes ago?”

“Yeah? It made no sense-”

“Here’s the sense! If you’re the Riddler’s son - be better than the Riddler! Make what’s his yours! Your time is  _ now! _ Since you know your roots, and you most possibly know who you are!”

“I don’t! I… I want to help people. I  _ want _ to be the hero.”

“So be one!” Jervis stumbled off to retrieve the empty container of cookie dough, just to finish the leftovers, “ _ Mmf- _ Make Gotham actually smarter with your constructions or challenges. And make sure the people who cross  _ your _ path regret doing so~”

“Wise words from a lunatic,” Ethan spat out, then closed his mouth shut and looked out the window as the Hatter continued indulging in what was meant to be the product for today.

“...Are you cop types always so dense? How do you not realize you’ve got  _ massive _ potential as a vigilante who can clean up the Nygma name?!”

“Why would I want to-” Blacksun shut up again. Wait. This… Actually made sense. The Riddler is a damned criminal. So is he, technically, but he’s at the bottom and the Riddler’s at the top. A good way to rise to the top would be… 

Bingo. 

“Ethan… Nygma.” Ethan stopped in his tracks, and looked at the Hatter with his own eyes lighting up with interest: “Ethan, Nygma. E.Nygma… Enigma!”

“Yaaas! See what I was talking about, buddy? Start fresh~ An old brand with a new name and a bit of a twist!”

“That sounds… Simple. On paper…” Ethan started pacing around the room, his purple jacket now paid less attention to than the emerald-green shirt beneath it, “I don’t know what to  _ start _ with. I mean, I’m already processing photos and enact surveillance across most of the Old Town, anyway.”

“Sell information,” Jervis said, smirking afterward, “Or, alternatively… You could help  _ me  _ get what I need.”

“And what  _ do  _ you need?” Ethan asked.

“A person,” the Hatter’s grin grew wider, “A very powerful person at that. One who possibly confirmed who you are, and one recently put into Arkham.”

“It can’t be-”

“Oh yes. It is. And if you will help  _ me _ , I’ll help you establish your own Wonderland!”

Ethan’s grin now matched the Hatter’s, as he extended his hand, with the latter shaking it as soon as it was offered: “This means the Enigma brand is going to become one of a  _ more  _ criminal background. Should we make both prizes and perils for those who participate in games, then?”

“Why yes, of course! Though, I would insist on  _ perils _ rather than  _ prizes _ for whoever ends up in your own little Riddle Factory~ ”

***

_ @Otisburg, Gotham City: _

Long and tedious is the journey when one’s leg is as heavily impaired as is Joshua Cobblepot’s. Especially when one has to be covert in their tracks, too. In order to leave no tracks behind, Rockhopper had to take his boots off. Well… One boot. Since there was nothing to do with the limp lump of a foot which trailed behind him as he continued to crawl. Immense pain from the severed nerve endings both gave him the energy to continue and forced him to the edge of losing consciousness. 

The lack of blood, energy, or life, in general, was written directly on his face. His pallid, unshaven, scarred and  _ empty  _ face. No thoughts behind it, simply pain and the one goal in mind - to push forward. Whatever the cost. He could not disappoint his idol, who disappointed him in turn. In spite of supposedly changing his mind about the revolution and senseless violence, hate still drove Joshua forward. It still isn’t clear for what - he probably does not know, himself - but hate was the only thing keeping him alive for the past couple of hours, and hate was most probably responsible for him  _ still living, _ as a whole. 

Cobblepot had to take the deep-end routes. Weeks of simply walking around Gotham with Theodore were not nearly as useless as he thought. After all, this gave him more time to prepare, and study the environment. Hence why some parts of Northside were still under the Brigadiers’ control - their signs graffitied on the walls, and some flags hanging out of the barred-off windows. Indeed - he had to traverse the Narrows to get to the meeting point. And, seeing what has been done under his demesne made it obvious he has done nothing. Although the Rockhopper  _ used to be _ a symbol of anarchy, he’s a dead man, now. Twice. 

Dead men tell no tales. Especially to those they knew personally. 

Josh is certain if the residents find him, they’ll put his head on the same pike he used to put the heads of his enemies on. Shards of glass from old Moltovs and bullet shells were still laying around vacant on the abandoned streets. Though it was clear they were not. One had to be careful when traversing them, of course - there were still his snipers, out and about. Perhaps Tigress’s schoolgirl mafia, too. Too many enemies, but - there’s only one way to Otisburg from the Bay, and it is  _ here. _ Through blood, pain, shit, and brick dust. 

Thankfully, the Narrows were, well… The Narrows. Their slim passages and all kinds of nooks made it easy to hide from the threat above and the unwanted spectators. Though, the challenge of making little noise was also at stake - Joshua  _ tried  _ to make a crutch out of some branches, but it was going to fall apart any minute now. Thus, yet another painful fall face-down is to be expected. At least his nose is made of iron - that will do the job nicely. 

It’s been a couple of hours since his journey back started. Step by step, little by little, Joshua went into a deeper part of town. Since he’s a dead man, no one would be looking for him, especially since he kept his location entirely in secret. Sure, one could go down to the sewers for more safety, but there’s always the danger of encountering Artemis there. And Artemis will not have mercy, like Red Hood did.  _ To his surprise, Jason was, in a way, merciful towards him. _ But that didn’t matter - not any longer. For if he truly wanted to survive and get under the idolized vigilante’s wing, he’d have to pass through hell - he is  _ already _ passing through one. 

As the sun set over the skyline, twilight emerged staggeringly-fast. It gets dark fast in Gotham, much like it does up further north and over the seas, in Coddy. Though, to be fair - Gotham City never gets much sun, overall. Good. The half-naked, bruised, beaten, and bleeding Rockhopper can hide in the massive and imposing buildings’ shade, as well as their frail, left-behind counterparts. And, it appears that he’s not exactly as  _ alone _ as it seems:

There’s some fatso cowering in the corner. To Joshua’s surprise, he’s wearing a suit! With a big orange bowtie and a yellow waistcoat! Must be one of Ogilvy’s dumped servicemen - his hair’s just like his; ash-blonde. Maybe it’s the unnamed brother of his, somehow? Regardless, best to avoid eye contact as he passes next to him. This bum’s got really nice, round glasses, though. One of the lenses is cracked. He’s just sitting here, in the mud, sobbing and rocking from front to back. A disgusting and pathetic sight, really. Josh tried his best to move through the narrow passage as quickly as he could, but of course - his arms were getting tired. Then, a wavering, shrill voice came from the back: 

“Mister… Mister Cobblepot?”

_ Shit. _ It’s a witness. He knows, he saw, he will spill it out upon first opportunity. The Rockhopper turned around with a rabid gaze and a feral scowl. He did not recognize the tubby coward the first time around, but now he did: It was Arnold Wesker, the (seemingly former) Ventriloquist. Without his strange little puppet, without much left. There’s nothing worth to him more than his life. There shouldn’t be - no normal person would wish to die, even in such conditions. So he growled, then yowled, and pounced onto Wesker, pushing his hands as far out as he could to wring them around his neck. 

The fall was softened by Arnold’s frame. He took it surprisingly well. Didn’t even budge, in fact. Joshua’s long, ice-cold fingers continued to bury themselves into his soft and plentiful flesh. That neck of his is too slippery to snap, so he’ll have to sit there and let it work. Arnie didn’t even lift his hands up as Cobblepot repeatedly tried to slam his head against the grimy pavement. He did not resist. Like a drugged-out duck in a wounded fox’s grip. Something was wrong about this. Very, very wrong. Even morally so, but a wounded fox cares not about morals. 

“Fight me!” Joshua yowled, “Fight me you fuckin’ prick! You can’t go down like this!”

“Wh-Who are you to st-stop me?” Wesker replied in a hollow, yet sorrowful voice, “I have nothing else worth to  _ live _ for! Do it! Please, Mr. Cobblepot,  _ ghh-krh- _ simply… Do it.”

“Gladly,” the yowling turned back into indignant hissing, as the fingers wrapped tighter around the Ventriloquist’s neck. He was staring right into the Rockhopper’s eyes, who, to his surprise, found no more forces to break it. Not only was he physically weak, but he was also getting worn-down mentally to a state of absolute unhingement. 

“...No,” Josh huffed, “No, no, no no no- This feels wrong. You know I’m still around, but… I can’t fuckin’ kill you.”

Arnold seemed both grateful and disappointed with Joshua’s words, taking his glasses off and wiping the tears off with his sleeve. “I… Wuh-Why?” He sniffed, “You. Y-You don’t look too well, Mr. Cobblepot. May I… Try a-and, g-get you something?”

“ **Nay!** ” Josh lashed out, finally fully letting go of Wesker, “Whatever you do, Wesker - do not, say, a word about me. Or else, I swear to God an’ Satan an’ everything else I will murder you  _ slowly. _ Got it?”

“Gotitsirsorrysir! N-Not a single word, I-I promise,” Arnie stammered as he usually does, getting back to his stubby feet and folding his hands onto his stomach in the meantime. Joshua was still prostrating on the cold and muddy concrete. He tried to get up, but grit his teeth and hushed down a scream of pure agony. Only then did the overly-diplomatic and kind secretary notice the absolutely  _ ravaged _ ankle of his. In spite of the murky protests coming from the Rockhopper, the Ventriloquist lifted him up and gave him his walking stick - a spare one he preserved in case he’s to meet Mr. Ogilvy or a Cobblepot again. 

“Mr. Cobblepot, sir… Y-You need a doctor-”

“Fuck the doctors. Fuck the hospital. I’ve places to be, Wesker.”

“Will you… Take me with you, by any chance?”

“No,” Josh shook his head, overlooking his unneeded servant for quite some time, “But. I won’t forget this. I will find you, and when I’ll be capable to help - I’ll help.”

“B-But how? Mr. Scarface…”

“We’ll find him.”

“You will?!”

“I’ll try to. Now be quiet.  _ Quiet. _ This conversation did  _ not _ happen-”

“W-Well of course…” At long last, Arnie stopped crying, as a whole. Mr. Dunlow’s death seemingly hadn’t had not nearly as big of an effect on him as Mr. Scarface’s did. Still - through pain, both he and the Rockhopper showed their tired, messy grins off. And oh, Arnold Wesker did smile. Finally, he could feel a strong presence around him. He is, once again, not alone - at least in spirit. 

“Thank you, Mr. Cobblepot. I. This. Th-This didn’t happen~”

If he still had anything left within him in terms of strength, Josh would  _ hug _ the dapper hoodlum. But now, he has to move,  _ run, _ post-haste. The sun’s about six minutes from setting. There’s no time to explain - he waved his hand to a cab, and, much to his luck, he got someone to respond. Quite literally diving into the back seat, Josh quickly spat out the approximate description of the building, and the concerned but unfazed taxi driver pushed the pedal into the floor. He did not know where he drove him to, but it seemed right. 

It  _ was _ bloody right! Here’s that building, and the narrow passage he’s supposed to be in. 

“That’ll be ten bucks, wacko,” the driver turned back and stretched his hand out.

“Keep it,” Josh sputtered once more and left the walking stick in the back seat. Naturally, the reaction of his savior was… Nothing. That driver went on and watched as the grimy bastard smeared shit all over his back seat, and skipped towards this very prestigious-looking office building on his one bare leg. 

“...What a fuckin’ weirdo, man. Where’s them Birds when ya need ‘em.”

Everyone collectively forgot the face of a war criminal who made the entire Northside shiver at the deeds his goons have done. But hey - much like the ones that stopped him, Joshua Cobblepot is just a man. A weak, wounded, desperate man, leaning onto a dirty wall which saved him from another humiliating fall. His vision is trippy. He’s barely conscious again. He hasn’t eaten or drunk anything in two days. Is he… Is he going to die again? His wounds are bleeding. But no. No. He has to keep moving. He has to impress his idol! One last time. 

A hand made him bend backward, his face free from the brick wall’s surface. The Rockhopper fell into the much stronger arms of his new mentor… And tormentor. His russet eyes stared back into Jason Todd’s, the man who held him close and had his usual cocky smirk. Josh couldn’t help but smile back. 

“Am I… Ugh-h- Did I make it?”

“Barely. But y’did.”

“So. This means…”

“Yeah. I saw whatcha did.”

“Every part of it?”

“Yeah. There were a couple fails an’ cringey shit, but you’re good in  _ my  _ books, now. Let’s go - we got a lot to catch up on, kid.”


	20. Comfort in Vanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting better! Not really. Oswald is up late at night, as he usually is, while Edward cannot get any rest. The two of them come to terms with themselves a little over a tub of ice cream and lament their past in the process.
> 
> In Arkham, Dr. Hugo Strange appears to be reinstated as a useful asset to Arkham's personnel by Dr. Jeremiah Arkham, in spite of Batman's direct order not to do so. Dr. Bolton and Dr. Strange are colleagues, if not lab partners, and their desire to break both the White Rabbit and the Emperor Penguin down is evident in their grand scheme of things. Both Theodore and Ignatius aren't having that, and finally, settle on a shaky agreement in order for an escape attempt to be more successful. 
> 
> Finally - Joshua is revived! His leg is fixed, and the pecking order is established by Jason Todd, who still goes by the name Renegade.

_ @Iceberg Lounge, Gotham City: _

Ah yes, the spring rain: Not quite warm, but not as cold as it is in autumn. Something about it is very tranquil and special - the way it hits the windows’ surface, and the way it travels downward, slowly, with unusual viscosity. Granted, there might be an outburst at Ace Chemicals again, but it’s more romantic to think of it as something magical. That’s what  _ Oswald _ would mutter to him in his sleep, after all. 

And speaking of Oswald - he’s out of bed! It’s four in the morning, though, so he’s probably attending yet another one of his soirees or private dinner with the new Mayor or whatever has he. Edward Nygma is usually up by this point. Well, he  _ was _ up a couple of nights beforehand. Tonight? Nah. He’s taking a rest from the puzzles and the quizzes, the crosswords and sudokus, all the cubes and the shapes and the possible theories of how he ended up growing so  _ sick _ with  _ it _ \- with the games he himself invented. 

It must be recent news that finally got to him. After all, he  _ knew _ Ethan was his son for all these years. And he dumped the responsibility on Oswald, like he usually does. And everything was fine like this. Everyone was functioning. Pretty well at that, he must add! Ethan’s a very successful kid, he’s…  _ Proud _ of him, in a sense. Is he proud of him? Well. Yes. And no. He’s not proud of Ethan for simply…  _ Being. _ For being a nuisance to him, for being his weakness. For turning him into a figure someone looks up to! Edward Nygma is no mentor - he’s an artisan, sure, and a master of his craft - a master of knowledge! But he’s no… Father figure. 

Pit-pat. Pit-pat. Pit-pat. Pit-pat. The raindrops’ falling almost felt rhythmic by now, as the Riddler struggled with getting sleep. Turning the head off simply didn’t work anymore. Too many thoughts, to many grievances and projects in that bright little noggin. And yet, Eddie remained in the same unpleasant balance between half-slumber and half-wakefulness, the rain contributing heavily to that state while Nygma rolled from one side of the spacious bed to the other. 

Sure, Ed had his own quarters in the Lounge reserved for him at all times, but Ozzy’s bed is simply more  _ comfortable. _ Especially when he’s around! And when he isn’t, it feels like a void of fluff, goosefeather pillows, blankets, and a distinctly-fishy kind of smell. Nygma pushed himself up from the pillow and took a long, disgusted look at it:  _ “Yup, that’s totally his.” _ Tossing it aside, he then fell back down and stared at the rich and elaborate tapestry that rested above the transparent palankeen. Thoughtlessly. With the rain taking over his consciousness and relieving him of his burdens, if only for a moment. Another, perpetual question then entered his mind once more:

_ “If you’re so smart, Eddie, why aren’t you as rich as him?” _

There’s no point in trying to sleep anymore. Tired and frustrated, Nygma jumped off the bed and lazily found the slippers with his feet. They weren’t his, so he tried again. Bingo. He got up, and found the lights to be simply… Off. Besides the lamp on Ozzy’s desk and the inner lights of a bath in the open loft’s center. They’re always on, in case one needs to chill out in a place like this. It is quite cold already, though. Hence why Ed always has a bathroom coat on. An emerald one, specifically ordered and measured by Cobblepot, himself. 

While this was a nice gift reminiscent of the Penguin, the big bird himself was nowhere to be found! Indeed, he must be outing again. Edward produced a grump and moved over to the kitchen… Only to find  _ him _ digging through the fridge before he did. How did he not notice his presence there? Ed just noticed the lights from it. Is he getting rusty? He’s probably getting rusty. Anyway - Ozzy’s found! Time to relax a little and feel better about oneself.  _ Not really. _

Ozzy without his makeup was quite the sight, still. The most surprising thing about him was that his hair wasn’t black. A big scar right next to the eye and the hidden, perpetually-dilated pupil weren’t repulsive at all. Somehow, Penguin managed to look both gritty and soft at the same time. Mostly gritty right now, though - judging by Oswald’s face, he had trouble sleeping, too. And he, therefore, chose to engorge himself on a leftover tub of ice cream from the last gala, that would most probably be stale if not for the Iceberg being a literal giant fridge. 

Thankfully, Ed’s steps were loud enough for him to notice and not get scared, so the reaction from Oz was calm and collected. Silently, the short fowlman reached for the second spoon while resting next to one of the coldest places in the entire loft. Nygma took the spoon and gestured towards the exit from the kitchen island. 

“Since I’m awake, there’s no point in being quiet, now, eh?”

“Yup. Though I tried to give you time to rest, Eddie. You could use some.”

“So could you, but, well - no rest for the wicked~”

Oswald’s loud, quacky chuckle was soon supported by Edward’s own, reserved and hushed-down, as well as audibly damaged with all the cigarettes he used to partake in. There’s a spacious conversation pit in the other end of the grand space, with windows overlooking Old Gotham, as the view of it spreads out from one corner of the chamber to the other. There’s a TV, sure, but there’s nothing to watch for tonight. Vicki Vale’s back to her usual reports on Wayne Enterprises, the science channel has gone to shit, and the most important thing happening after the insurrection is Scarecrow’s bodega attack. Gotham’s gone… Quiet, after Joshua disappeared. Awfully quiet. 

Neither Ed nor Oz wanted to break this silence, however. They shared a look of uneasiness while sharing spoonfuls of cookie dough-flavored frozen custard. 

“Your, ah… Your tan’s worn off,” Nygma said, out of the blue. 

“Well yes - it usually wears off quickly. Plus I didn’t sunbathe much, for obvious reasons.”

“And so we are back on our bullshit… Kind of, sort of. Maybe.”

“Not quite, Eddie,” Oz muttered under his breath, “This can’t really go on the same way it did beforehand. I mean,  _ our children. _ They’re back. And we’re still neglecting them, even though I, personally, want to do the exact opposite. I just… Don’t know how to help them, besides financial aid.”

This conversation was yet another downer. Everything about the past week was a real downer. Ed didn’t quite wish to have any of that on his mind, but here he goes again. A long, grueling silence followed after Oswald’s confession, as he continued to eat his ice cream with an anxious, strained face. Ah yes - brain-freeze. Not even the Penguin is immune to that kind of torment. 

“Sometimes,” Nygma finally spoke, “I wish we could go back to the earlier days. I mean, to the  _ start _ of it all. When it wasn’t nearly as complicated, and when it wasn’t fucking  _ boring me to death. _ ”

“So,” Oz replied, “You’re saying the last month or two were boring, Eddie?”

“No, no! We spent a good bit of time together, and I’ve developed myself as a person, maybe, I dunno, but - the fact we’re no longer seen as the  _ new beginning, _ the  _ visionaries  _ of this city, is what vexes me. And now I’ve been thinking where it all went wrong, but I can’t find a possible answer. I can’t find an answer to this damn problem, Oswald. No matter how hard I have tried, over these last few days…”

“Well… Maybe you’re just growing old, Eddie,” Oswald said with a faint grin. A pained grin at that. 

“That’s the point!” Ed answered, “I don’t  _ want _ to get old! I want to go back to times when  _ I _ was ahead of the curve, and  _ we _ were the zeitgeist. Now all I am is just… A drab  _ riddleman _ . Even the Bat’s not paying attention as much anymore - he’s got kids of his own to deal with them.”

Cobblepot’s hand now wrapped around Nygma’s cinched waist, and his face pressed into the soft, pleasantly-scented fabric of his own order: “Mm-hm. Don’t say that, love - you still have people who care about you, and recognize your intelligence.”

“Well  _ yeah. _ But it’s not  _ everyone. _ And it used to be different.  _ Rrgh- _ I hate seeing  _ you _ like this, and being powerless to change it! I can solve anything,  _ anything _ when it comes to puzzles, but not… People.”

“I know. I know, Eddie…” Ozzy’s tone got all the deeper and quieter. Nygma figured Oswald’s gonna get all the more nosy and affectionate with him, so a deep and heavy sigh later, the Riddler took the Penguin into a grip of his own and let himself hug on him. After what felt like an eternity of not-thinking, Ed rose his head back up from Cobblepot’s well-defined chest and huffed once more: 

“I… May come off as an emotionless smug fuck, and I usually am, but it doesn’t mean I can’t feel anything, Oz. This… The fact that I had to leave  _ him _ for  _ you _ to take care of, it… I couldn’t bear it! Even though everything was fine, most of what was happening to me and still is is  _ not. _ I can’t have a family because of my instability, but I also have a grand legacy as a result of it. I-It’s like a Chinese finger dilemma, but with people that tug me apart, and… And I’m  _ tired, _ of being useless. And I couldn’t raise Ethan because of fucking  _ daddy issues. HEH. Imagine that… _ ”

“Listen to me, Ed,” Oz took a grasp of his shoulder, then cupped his cheeks with both hands, “Listen to me! You, are, one of the most capable and mature people I know to  _ date. _ And you are more-than capable of dealing with it.”

“Yes, but-”

“Eddie, I don’t want to hear no buts from you. You’re my only island of stability at this very fuckin’ moment, ‘sides a tub of Ben & Jerry’s, but that’s besides the point! What you have to do, is accept the consequences of your actions. Both our actions. And then we move on. And then - when we’re better - we get together, and we help our children figure themselves out. I do not, I do  _ not _ want for Ethan to share fates with Joshy… But for now, we remain here.”

And so they rested. In an empty hall, with a tub of half-melted ice cream on Oswald’s lap, and tumult within Eddie’s head. It’s always a mess in there, but tonight, especially. And so Edward settled, for now, sinking into Oswald’s flesh with his ghastly, cold fingertips. 

Perhaps it’s best if they try to sleep together again, in spite of decades of boiled-up emotions. 

***

_ @Arkham Asylum, Gotham City: _

“-And that is why the word “sociopath” has too broad of a connotation to use it on both the participants of your experiment and our patients,” A deep and enticing voice polished Dr. Bolton’s ears as her eyes trailed down from the parapet and observed the grand hall through an electrified steel mesh stretched above it. There’s no clutter down below… At least for now. Better yet, the baton resting beneath her lab coat only gave more reassurance in case the situation goes dire. Her superior’s words flew over her head as one of the restrained inmates started thrashing around and throwing muffled curses at her through the muzzle. Perhaps she was… A bit out of it, by this point. 

Doctor Hugo Strange noticed the tiresome state of his subordinate, and went quiet for a moment. 

“Is everything all-right, Doctor Bolton?” He asked, just as calmly, smiling and turning her frame towards himself by taking a grasp of her shoulder. To say Dr. Strange is  _ grand _ would be an understatement, in all senses: 

He is rather tall, his stance is enclosed and reserved, and his constitution is quite  _ meaty _ in comparison. Unlike Linda and her coat, his hugs the whole frame rather tightly, and this thick white robe covers his body down to the very ankles. His round, heavy glasses match his bald head in its shine, though, it’s also evident Dr. Strange shaves it, since a grey circlet of those could still be visible under the completely bald part. The only areas of his body rich in hair are his brows and his neckbeard, which, admittedly, somehow wasn’t a fashion crime. 

“Ah- ...Yes, Dr. Strange,” Linda’s reply followed suit. A couple of seconds have passed, and she barely noticed that, her eyes visibly lost and confused. 

“Good,” he replied much sooner, “Otherwise, I’d have all the evidence to believe your new patient got into your head.  _ Hehmh! _ ”

“ _ Hah, _ good riddance as always, Doctor. He’s been  _ trying to, _ ” Dr. Bolton lowered her tone even further down, as the white-haired “patient” ventured into the general populace area. Squinting, Doc continued: “My methods… Haven’t exactly brought anything to fruition. Not yet. I’ll play the long game with him, in particular.”

“No need to,” Strange replied dryly, “I’ll take over and help you out.”

“But Dr. Strange-”

“No-no, don’t doubt yourself,” His tone went back to a somewhat-pleasant manner, “I, for one, find you more-than capable of extracting information out of Mr. Eagleton, but I need  _ more _ than mere information; I need his trust,  _ full  _ trust at that, and for it to be achieved - I must act personally.” 

In the meantime, Mr. Eagleton himself shook his head in an attempt to get his drugs to wear off faster. They always kept him in a very slumbersome state, but - such are the perils of sitting around in an “asylum”. Even though he’s not insane. Surely it’s yet another method of torture the head bitch in charge is using to try and break him, but he’s going to keep smiling to her. Linda won’t have a change of heart, but at least he’ll be seen as less of an asshole than she is. 

Oh, and there they are! With the Headmaster! Stumbling forward and wrapping himself into a granted cardigan, Theodore waved to the squinting doc and the bigger doc, whilst moving forward to change the vinyls in the player. As he moved forth, another muzzled inmate tried to come up, sniff, and lick him, but of course - the weirdo got pushed away by a cold and damp palm, fingernails digging into his flesh and causing him, no -  _ it, _ to squeal. Theodore tried reading the name tag to file a complaint later, but it got really blurry as the strange creature scurried back off into its corner. In spite of this rather strange encounter, the Bunny didn’t even raise a brow, and carried on slowly strutting over, in order to keep his balance intact. 

All while being observed by way more people than he could see in this sorry state. 

“He is a dangerous criminal who should pay for what he’s done,” Linda spat out through grit teeth while the Rabbit wasn’t looking.

“And he will,” Strange answered, “He is paying for them now. After all, you’re the one carrying it out. I will try to negotiate, and see what comes forth from it.”

“So it’s the usual good-cop bad-cop situation?”

“In essence, yes.”

“I’ll be as bad as I can be, then.”

“Be such. The White Rabbit will be a useful asset to the Magistrate - let us not lose him out of sight for as long as he is with us, for he’ll escape at  _ some _ point, eventually.”

“I’ll do my best he won’t, but… You know how Dr. Arkham treats such situations more than I do.”

“In-deed, Dr. Bolton. We’re getting  _ loud, _ meet me in my office forty minutes later.”

“Understood, Dr. Strange.”

It’s not like Theodore could hear any of their babbling besides a few noticeable words. The sedatives were still in him, and quite strongly so. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t pay much mind to himself being surrounded by meatier, but… Shorter, folk. Besides Ogilvy, of course - to his surprise, Iggy was still in his  _ less-presentable _ form! Though, it’s not like he could control it. That means the doctors are using him for all kinds of experiments, most likely. Who wouldn’t, after all. 

There are two kinds of faces right next to one of his own. One of a rather corpulent man with a big, turnt-up nose and small brown dots for eyes, kind of lost in the large outfits. The nasal cavity’s visibly weathered down by a nose hook, as the marks from its use engraved themselves into the nose’s soft flesh. The other face was heavily-scarred and bearded, with a distinctly-sweet smell of blood and cotton candy about it. The hair’s rather long and pink. That contradicts with the other, fat inmate’s conservative and sleeked-back sort of hair. Seems like Iggy’s their leader, and they’re real upset with something. Maybe his whole presence, even. 

“...Well heya, fellasch,” Theodore quacked as if nothing happened. “And - juscht a note fer later: I’un have a lotta meat on me, and I’m too fragile to make for a good dolly, Professchor~”

“We know,” Ogilvy said, “We’re just making sure you’re still the same as you were.”

“An annoying cunt? Why yesh I am!”

“Non-non, mon cher,” Dr. Valentin interrupted, “We are making sure you aren’t involved in any, ah…  _ Camaraderie  _ with our new warden.”

The Bunny raised his pallid brow, but, judging by their faces - these bigger folks were serious: “Nawh, of coursche not. That bitch thinksch beatin’ me harder isch gunna looschen my tongue.  _ Schtewpid, innit... _ ”

Ogilvy’s hand now rested on his shoulder. Naturally, the Bun’s all shaken up from this interaction. He’s powerless! And Iggy’s about twice as big as he is. Plus, he has a Pig and a Flamingo on his side - time to look pathetic and friendly,  _ again. _

“ _ Good, _ ” the Emperor Manbat growled out with a grin, “This means you will join my team.”

“Woah- Hold ON for a schecond.  _ Weren’t ya supposed to- _ ”

“Yes. Plans change - expectedly so. The Headmaster deems me too valuable a patient to simply “let go”, but I am not one to bide my time for science’s sake.”

“So you are…”

“Also yes. And I’m taking both of  _ these _ fine gentlemen with me. If you wish to stay here - we will not speak again, and you may continue a pathetic existence until you’re turned into a cripple by Dr. Bolton. But, if you choose to join me and fulfill my plan - I expect  _ loyalty, _ and  _ capability. _ Both of the traits you have demonstrated plenty while working for the Rockhopper. So - what’s your choice, White Rabbit?”

Theodore has read a lot about each of the Gotham Rogues and Arkham inmates simultaneously while preparing for the Rockhopper’s operation. Ogilvy’s right. He  _ is _ both loyal and capable - a really valuable asset. And, to be honest? He does not mind at  _ all _ being treated like such. On one hand, Ignatius is known for expert cruelty, much like the demented Dr. Laszlo Valentin or Eduardo Flamingo on the other side. On the other hand - Ignatius pays much better than Joshua ever did, _ in all senses _ , and he himself seems much more noble… Much like the little friends he made while incarcerated here. The White Rabbit’s squint was a heavy and judgmental one. He had to think. And so he did, settled up against the wall while the Emperor Penguin chose to recline, instead. 

After a while, he responded: “Our time is almost over, fellas. Though, some conditions must be fulfilled, first…” Suddenly, the Bunny raised his finger and harshly prodded at Pyg’s chest with a fingernail: “ _ This _ little piggy doesn’t touch me or my shit while I’m working, and  _ this- _ ” Another finger landed on Flamingo, “-foul fowl doesn’t get to eat my bony-ass cadaver if an’ when I croak.”

“T’is already agreed upon,” Ogilvy said in his usual, enticing, deep tone, while his crimson eyes glared down at both Pyg and Flamingo’s disappointed faces, “I believe we have a consensus. So, then?”

Iggy’s grand palm with its long nails and bark-like skin was already stretched out to the nimble newbie in their group. Although Theodore didn’t look too pleased with this decision, he himself put his hand into Ignatius’s and shook it, as firmly as he could.

“I’m in.”

***

_ @Otisburg, Gotham City: _

The light - it’s too bright. Josh just woke up and he already couldn’t stand the bright collagen lamp shining directly into his face. A loud and startled groan was enough for his unexpected savior to move it away - ah yes, the Renegade’s still here. In fact - he’s at his place! Hideout! Somewhat. This… Looks more civilized than he could imagine. Judging by the amount of bandages and clothes tossed across the entire tiny studio apartment, it’s evident someone  _ does _ live here more often than not. And in fact - he’s resting on a kitchen island! Spewing blood from his still-damaged ankle, as more of it is being pumped into him. 

“Where… The…” Cobblepot could feel his own speech going slurry - but there isn’t much he can do with such severe blood loss. Jason moved in and clasped his mouth shut - gently. 

“Be quiet, kid - y’lost a lotta blood an’ I still haven’t found out a way to fix your ankle. So here’s what we’re gonna do:” Todd held a flask with something viscous and bright-green in his other hand, “You’ll drink this, the entire fucking bottle. Then, as you’ll start feelin’ funny, I’ll just… Twist it back into place, and the tendons should be done did again. It’ll hurt,  _ a lot, _ but I’m relying on you bein’ steady.”

Rockhopper gave a silent nod to the vigilante, signifying he’s ready. Jason handed him the bottle, and Josh desperately gulped down the entire thing in less-than a minute. It smelled  _ foul _ , and the taste was of both sewers and swamp water, but there isn’t much to pick from - especially when he’s about to pass out from dehydration. Joshua didn’t even know what brought him back, but the second he was done with this bottle of Red Hood mutagen - he felt a flow of power in him… As well as crushing, excruciating pain in the entire body, as the nerve endings regrouped, rejoined, and the tissue reformed itself. 

Josh screamed. He screamed a lot. But - Jason didn’t shut him up, as he did, indeed, keep himself still as his ankle was remolded back into a somewhat-normal shape. The previously bleeding flesh wounds and bullet holes have now fully sealed, leaving Cobblepot entirely physically healthy by the time his veins weren’t  _ glowing green. _ Mentally, though? The eyes were still quite green, and with the pain now gone - there came aggression. 

Jason held him down, strongly enough to keep a hold of that lanky Birdkid, but also gently enough not to leave any bruises or cause unnecessary damage to his innards. “Listen to me!” He screamed back at the yowling, growling Cobblepot, “I said,  **listen to me!** Calm t’fuck down, it’s over! You’re here, you’re with me, you are fine, Josh. Hear that? You’re  _ fine. _ ”

To Jason’s own surprise, Joshua calmed down. Although he’s skinny as all hell, there’s plenty of force this frail body can have and a lot of damage it can take. After all - the little fucker survived all the way through his way to a little Batcave of his own, so that deserves at least some credit - even from him. Cobblepot lifted himself up from the kitchen island, still smeared in blood and practically nude, thus leaving plenty of marks and steps as he tried standing on his own two for the first time in four days. Yup, fully healed - though, the phantom pain is still quite prevalent. 

“What the… What the fuck was that?” Josh looked at Todd with a completely lost, yet healthy expression.

Renegade’s smirk was that of relief… For now: “T’was a water from a magic well.”

“No, no - I’m serious. What, the fuck, was in this bottle?”

“Water, duh.”

“It’s not  _ just _ fucking water, is it? Am I gonna turn into a god-damn vulture the next day after?”

“Ya might!” Jason winked.

A long pause followed suit. It seems the Renegade’s new (and not really wanted) apprentice didn’t take the joke too well. “Relax,” Jason added, “It’s water from a well. That revives people. S’ called the Lazarus Pit.”

“So… They aren’t a myth?”

“Nope. And, what I  _ think  _ brought you back, is that same thing. There’s at least three pools unnerneath Gotham City, an’ one of them’s probably leaking.”

Joshua was… Confused, to say the least. While grabbing a random rag from the stovetop and wiping a puddle of his own blood off the kitchen counter, he tried to recognize the place and… Although he organized his base in the north of town, it’s a place he completely didn’t know of. Otisburg wasn’t his gangs’ turf, after all. For as long as his gangs lasted, really. “As I understand it - there are three pools beneath that dumpsterfire, capable of reviving  **anyone** , and it’s leaking out into this pisspool of a bay. Fuckin’ A. It means that most of the lads that died there are probably zombies walking around the Narrows or elsewhere!”

“...Well yeah. Probably,” Jason responded nonchalantly, “I mean- Who cares. As long as they ain’t hurtin’ nobody. Plus, no one cares ‘bout what happens in the Narrows - you took over ‘em and we figured it out only like, three weeks after. Gordon even stated you bastards were Santa Priscans,  _ hah! _ ”

“Invisibility was the key factor,” Josh also replied, but much more brashly than his counterpart. A long silence from him followed thereafter. Then - Cobblepot moved on over. To the fridge. 

“Don’t touch the poptarts!” Jason said, “They’re for missions.”

“Ight, fine, I find ‘em fucking gross, anyway. Tell me, though - what happens to me now? Do you, uhh, hand me over to the court, or something?”

“The court? You’re a mix of a  _ Cobblepot  _ and a  _ Sionis, _ and I take it you’ve got powerful enemies on your tailfeathers,” Renegade chuckled afterward, “They would rather kill you on sight than process all the accounts of murder you’re confirmed to have committed, kid. So I’m keepin’ my part of the agreement intact. You’re trainin’ unner  _ me _ now. No backin’ out, or I whack yo’ ass.”

“Sounds… Simple. As it did before. What’s in it for you? Does anyone else know about this?”

“Nawh, but I suppose no one will know if you wear some kinda  _ mask. _ You  _ better _ , actually. And - I get to have a free sniper to cover my six! Whatcha mean “What’s in it for me”? Think fast!”

“Right, right,” Josh fell silent again, lamenting and thinking. And eating a ham sandwich. The bread’s kinda stale and the ham is like spam - not entirely tasteless but awful in texture - but  _ boy _ has he never eaten something more delicious after a long couple of nights. The Rockhopper’s silent mostly to appreciate the beauty of a simple fucking sandwich’s taste. With Jason getting that gross-ass poptart that smelled of stale cinnamon and extra-fake sugar, Josh settled back down and let relief wash over both his pain and aggression. 

“So… In that case. When does my training start?”

“Oh. We’re starting now.”

“What do you mean now?”

“We’re going out, duh.”

“Where?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“Can I-”

“No rest for the wicked, remember?”

“Fucking hell… Fine, just lemme-”

“Finish your fucking sandwich and let’s roll out - you should feel peachy now.”

“Yeah.  _ Yessir, or whatever… Fuck’s sake, I’ll die again and again and he’ll keep reviving me for someshit… _ ” 

“I heard it!”

“Ughhh…”


	21. Enigma's Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is a chapter of both sweet returns and bitter consequences! Firstly, Arnold Wesker, the (former) Ventriloquist, roams around the streets in search of himself, his allies, and most importantly - himself. There, he has quite an unusual find and joins a friend who was close to him from the very beginning once again. 
> 
> Next, a new question mark-themed vigilante makes a gruesome debut by trapping Hamilton Hill, a former Mayor of Gotham City, in his first, sloppily-made, but still efficient contraption, much to the confusion of GCPD's task force. 
> 
> Finally, Dr. Strange plays the good cop-bad cop game with the White Rabbit, as he intended. And, naturally, the bond is quite shaky and shallow, but a common goal seems to unite the two mind-based Rogues. Perhaps these two could make a decent team, in spite of Theodore's previous agreement...

_ @Robbinsville, Gotham City: _

Hunger is always a horrible feeling. It’s slowly driving one mad, consuming the mind in food’s stead. Not that anyone wouldn’t consider Arnold Wesker not-crazy - after all, he treated his puppets like actual living creatures. Not that they  _ weren’t _ from his perspective - but he understood. Most, if not all, viewed him as a soft-spoken, well-mannered, strange little pushover. And he’s content with it! Better to be a pushover than a possible threat and lose a life without dedicating it to someone,  _ something _ else besides his own persona. 

But oh, even though Arnie wished to eat, he could not find anything that was not rotten in this part of town. Maybe being a Rogue again wasn’t as bad, after all. However - the “betrayal” of his “master” certainly tormented his pure little soul, and made sure he neither could, nor would grab anything. Wesker’s own will was too strong for this! And, although he hasn’t been eating, not nearly as much as he was before, he barely lost any weight. It must be the stress and Socko’s reprimands, most probably so. 

No one would pay attention to a weird man in his rags of a suit, with his broken glasses, and an old sock with googly eyes on his left hand. Thankfully, no one would. Arnold was both at peace with himself and not quite at the same time. He could not stop thinking about Mr. Cobblepot and all of his children. As well as Mr. Ogilvy. Wesker knew for sure  _ who _ ran Arkham nowadays, and all he’s hoping for is that he finally became human again, while not attracting too keen of an interest to himself. Oh, if only both he and Mr. Cobblepot were alive and well… He’ll live happily simply knowing they are! 

But alas. Nothing interesting happened on television since the Sprang Bridge Skirmish, and, since it’s getting warm - more people came out onto the streets, leaving the doll-less Ventriloquist cowering in the shadows for most of the day. 

Nightfall was equally as dangerous, but at least Socko could talk without any obstructions or hushdowns from his soft, rotund helper. Arnie’s feet hurt, but Socko pushed on. “C’mawn!” He said, “C’mawn, Arnie, we have to go! Otha’wise you’ll be left fer dead!” Those words weren’t quite as reassuring as he meant that, but who is Arnold to judge that. It’s a little warmer outside, mind you, but it was still cold as all hell! If the Muppet passed out from hunger, it would be the end for both him and the dirty little snake babbling next to a face of his own. 

Suddenly - Wesker’s bulbous nose could feel a very familiar, and a very  _ decadent  _ smell nearby. It couldn’t be… Fresh chocolate. But it was! Someone left a pack of those shell-shaped Belgian chocolate sweets near a trash can. To both Arnie and Socko’s surprise, the package was sealed perfectly shut, and the treats within were perfectly fresh, as well. Although Wesker doesn’t eat much, even in terms of bread or dairy - he’s got quite a sweet tooth, and that’s one of his many weaknesses. His only free hand shakily reached for the entire pack, but was quickly swatted away by Socko’s fist-shaped head. The puppet furrowed his brows, whereas the Muppet whined and quickly retracted it. 

“Ay, ay!” Socko raised his voice, “Don’t be  _ stoopid, _ now. Who would leave a whole pack a’ sweets in the middle a’ nowhere?”

“I-I don’t know! Sorry Sir. I-It’s just-”

“I know yer hungry - we’re all in this  _ togetha’. _ But think, Arnie, think!”

“Someone might have… Thrown it out.”

“C’maaawn, who would throw out expensive choccies like dat-”

“W-Wasteful folks… Not me, o-of course not. Please, Mr. Socko,  _ please _ let me take it! I-I can even share it!”

The little snake wrapped around Arnold’s neck, and settled right on the same shoulder his controlling hand was connected to. He had to think - he had to think plenty. On one hand, his job is to punish Arnie for abandonment and cowardice, but on the other - he’s been a good boy these past couple of days. On the third hand - it might be poisoned. But of course, seeing the blushing cheeks and the desperate eyes behind glasses made the prison warden without a prison rather  _ soft _ for the struggling Ventriloquist.

“...Ach- Fine. But eat only  _ one _ first, an’ den wait fer a couple minutes. To see if y’got got or not.”

Socko… Was never this rude or brash before, and he had no accent! Naturally, Mr. Scarface granted him some of those traits - it’s all logical! This means, Mr. Scarface is still alive, getting scorched and forked down below. And he needs a vessel. He needs a vessel  _ now. _ Anxious and thankful, Arnie said a quick  _ “Thankyousir!” _ and dug into the package with his free hand. To say the praline filling and the chocolate itself felt divine would be an understatement, especially by this point. 

Being in the streets meant Arnold and Socko were never really alone. Tonight was the case, as well: Under a bleak orange street light, a figure emerged, a rather ragged figure, and mindlessly ran behind the pair’s back in order to try and snatch the box away. Wesker might be an oaf, but Socko sure isn’t - not any longer. Socko heard everything, saw everything, with his creepy, wobbly, googly eyes. And, right as the other homeless schmuck was ready to pounce on both of them, the sock puppet socked him in the gut, and then delivered a hefty uppercut with all of Arnold’s bulk used for it. The hobo quacked and fell onto the cold and dirty pavement. 

Arnie’s shaken up. None of the shells went missing, but his shaky hands threatened a quick fall of theirs, as well. That said, the Ventriloquist set the pack aside and offered his hand to the angered thief. 

“I’m-I’m so s-sorry, Sir!” Wesker babbled, “I-It was an accident!”

“No it wasn’t!” Socko replied, “Stealing’s bad, ya dirty mop!”

“Fuck offa’ me, you crazy-ass bitch,” The thief in question growled and unsheathed a pocket knife. Oh boy. He’s ready to stab a man over a box of chocolates. Arnold shrieked and balled up. Socko pushed himself forth and “furrowed” his brows. Though, their opponent was quickly scared off by something much larger and more intimidating than a soft pushover and his sock puppet. Something, someone, stood behind Wesker. Something wooden, and possibly hollow, dragged itself on the pavement. Whatever it is, it for sure is  _ not  _ good for both of them. Taking a deep, shaky breath in, Arnie turned around:

He was right. He was so, very right! It’s a group of goons, or hockey players, judging by their masks and makeshift armor. Big, bulky, blocking the light from the opposite way of the narrow passage, their faces entirely obscured and the Gotham Knights’ logo displayed on their barrel-chests. Those must be some drunken fans on their way back home, to the Narrows. Arnold gasped and sulked down even more, waiting to be hit by their sticks at any moment, now. 

Among them was a figure. A much shorter, stouter figure. A well-dressed and groomed one, too. It, no, he, was holding a small notebook, as its bands loosely wrapped around his neck. It’s a very recognizable figure, for it is Martin Vickers-Cobblepot that was among all these grandiose and stalwart men. Oh boy - now Arnie’s just confused. 

“Mr… Mr. Vickers? I-Is that you?-”

“Of course it’s him, Blamo. Hey, boss number two!”

It appears that Martin got a new sign translator, as well. Does this mean Arnie’s getting replaced? Oh, bother. At least he’s here,  _ alive and doing well! _ That certainly pleased Wesker. His grin was still clean, in spite of all the filth he had to roll in. 

“It is good to see you, old friend,” the translator spoke in his deep, monotone voice, “As you can see, I got more friends to work with. Through the money we got on our way here. Gotham Knights are now my enterprise, and I’m trying to do good with whatever I have. I missed having you close to me, and I am sorry we split up so quickly and suddenly. Oh.  _ Huh, what? _ Right, your beard looks good on you.”

“O-Oh, th-thank you!-”

“Don’t mention it~”

“And I… Needed t-time, to recover, from… You saw.”

Soon enough, clutter ensued. By now it’s clear the box of chocolates was bait by which Mr. Vickers managed to track Arnie and Socko down. Well… At least he has Socko now. Again. 

“For sure,” one of the team players spoke up, “We all saw what happened.”

“Yeah, you’se was a star!”

“Doubt you can call that stardom, Persson.”

“Better than obscurity in the field, Dulevsky-”

“Anyway - dude. You lived. And your lil’ buddy was pretty much the only live casualty. We’re sorry, we’re all sorry.”

“Yeah. So that’s why we-”

A loud whistle came from Martin’s direction. Louder than any other whistle Wesker heard, so he had to shudder and clutch his ears for a second. The Knights flinched, as well. 

“Details later - let’s get Mr. Wesker to safety,” the translator’s eyes now trailed down as Martin quickly sketched something up. And that something was somewhat reminiscent of a sweater. With that done, one of the supposed ‘bandits’ took his hoodie off and carefully put it onto Arnold. 

“There you go,” he said, looking at the chocolates, “...Hooboy, you  _ really _ need a shower. But hey, we’ll take you in no-prob! Boss says he likes your company and service, so you’ll fit right in. Also - can I take one? I love chocolate, too.”

“I… Sure thing, good sir,” Arnold finally stopped stammering, and instead wrapped himself further into the donated oversized hoodie. Socko felt comfortable, too, judging by his quick shut-eye. Wesker finally realized those weren’t bandits Martin’s gathered around himself - those were the actual Gotham Knights. The biggest hockey team in South Jersey! Not that he was ever interested in hockey, but… He’ll have to get into it whence he gets back to work, and he will - right? He hopes so. That hope could be seen in the eyes behind cracked glasses, as Mr. Vickers was lifted up by his translator and  _ carried _ on his bulky shoulders. 

Judging by what Arnie and Socko saw earlier, the two had a nonverbal agreement; those folks have quite the  _ reputation.  _ And Mr. Vickers is among them - he isn’t afraid of them at all, in spite of his matching small size and round shape. There are still goals to achieve, such as, well…  _ Resurrect Mr. Scarface, of course. _ But for the first time in a long while, surrounded by men loyal to his actual boss, Arnold felt safe. Cared for. And most importantly - useful. 

***

_ @Robinson Park, Gotham City: _

Even warmer days arrived in Gotham as soon as April came forth. The weather felt a little nicer, the sun shone a little brighter, the rain’s warmer, the grass - greener, and so on. Indeed, there was actual green grass! In Robinson Park - an idyllic corner of lush, flatland nature that was left of the times when Gotham wasn’t a stack of concrete, pipes, and bricks. No wonder Poison Ivy enjoyed her time here so much. Furthermore, it was close to Gotham University - close enough for the fresh and highly-educated to venture into it and never return thereafter. 

But it wasn’t some student that went missing and ended up in Robinson Park this cozy, warm afternoon.

One particular area of the park was already marked with yellow tape and shut down by the GCPD. Although, curious visitors and even children tried to look past it. There was a large, octagonal box, with curtains draped over the innards of the glass side. Impenetrable and inaccessible, the rescuers tried figuring out whether it was a massive bomb or something else, entirely, judging by the amount of sappers flocking around it by the minute. Though, judging by its looks - there was a  _ show _ to be put up for any onlookers that gathered up at a certain point in time. 

It’s four PM on the Clock Tower nearby. The curtains open up, and behind the glass, there is a rather familiar figure to older citizens of Gotham: Former Mayor Hamilton Hill! Stuffed behind glass, his wrists were shackled and pierced, plastic tubes attached to the needles that hurt them for the time being. There’s some kind of a circlet around his head, as well as a mouth speculum holding it open, making it drool onto his blood-stained shirt and tie. Evidently bruised and beaten, the corrupt official’s panicked gaze reached out to the cops standing around, as well as the sappers trying to break into the stuffy little compartment. 

Another figure appeared on the screen behind Mayor Hill in the booth. Naturally, with all the question marks around, one could  _ assume _ it was the Riddler… Except it wasn’t. But, that stranger looked quite a lot like him: A purple overcoat was riddled with cyan question mark, and a khaki shirt was unbuttoned down to demonstrate most of the chalk-coated skin. Over the stranger’s face, there was a distinct spandex mask - also purple, with a shining, neon-cyan question mark traversing most of the front side. And of course - there’s the Riddler’s bowler hat on top of his head, as well. Oh, oh!  _ And _ there’s a shining green monocle, which demonstrates a rabid-looking eye through its semi-opaque lens. ” a shrill, loud, and whiny voice addressed those present from hidden speakers:

“Citizens of  _ Gotham. _ For too long you have been deceived by those who wish to take advantage of you. By liars, by the Secret Service, by ragtag  _ simpletons _ who chose to lead a criminal life not out of necessity, but out of sheer corruption and desire to screw you over. Good thing our homeland has a tradition of fine people taking matters into their own hands, because those who are supposed to serve and protect us, only serve and protect those in power, not those without it. Seeing the masses misguided, being pushed against one another, left me puzzled and confused, but I have come to a conclusion: Like it or not, I  _ will _ help this city while even the vigilantes are asleep. I  _ will _ bring justice to those who rob you of your voice. And I  _ will _ push the task force to work for the people, not its masters…”

The time on Hill’s headset started ticking - he had exactly fifteen minutes before something horrible happened. “...If they can  _ figure it out _ , that is. Here, is the fabula of this  _ enigma _ : Hamilton Hill, a former mayor and a bloodsucker of the people you see yelling at you, has to figure out how to donate his blood for a better cause. I have already set everything up, he has to simply think with his head, and use his tongue for the better. He has to think fast, however! Because the flow is slow, and time waits for none. Good luck, gentlemen! Oh, and - don’t try to break in. The timer’s up, but I still have a remote control at hand~”

And the Enigma at hand did, indeed, have a small remote control with a small button, demonstrated to the onlookers. One of the sappers already broke through the lock, but he was quickly called off. Gordon was going to arrive at the scene any minute now, but panic among cops made those behind the yellow line all the more thrilled. Some even tried filming the whole charade, as those guarding the line roughly pushed them away and caused the crowd to rile up against them. Hill was loud behind that glass, but his screams were barely audible. There’s visible panic in his eyes. Nobody knows what to do. The little shit is speaking in  _ riddles. _

The former mayor spotted a copper plate put right next to his bound wrists. He… Doesn’t quite know what to do with it, but since the upper half still had the flexibility, and the Riddler mockery called unto him to use his tongue… He did. And got electrocuted immediately. There’s lots of pain and strain in his face, but the blood, indeed, started flowing downward, through the tubes, pushed into blood bags stored outside of his confined toybox. Naturally, the cops didn’t touch anything as he squirmed, bucked, and twitched, unable to pull himself away from the plating. There are only eight minutes left, but he’s already on the brink of death, as the so-called task force watched on helplessly.

Gordon arrived too little too late. The puzzle piece wasn’t for the mayor, but for  _ them  _ to figure out! The process is already launched. Hill was going to die, anyway, but James’s quick eye spotted a pipe bomb lying on the underside of the fancy container. 

“Out, out!” He screamed at the uniforms, letting only the sappers stay and pointing at the little wires traversing the toybox’s very bottom. Pliers were in demand at this very moment. Jim pushed forces away on time, as the sappers noticed the wires, as well. With their expertise, the bomb was quickly dismantled, but they soon found out the door was sealed shut, and there is no possible way of opening it. Hamilton Hill is already unconscious, and his face is growing more pallid by the minute. He no longer twitches, as all of the voltage has run out - only his blood is slowly, painfully being drained out of him. Until his face slides off the plate entirely, and he is left hanging by his wrists, bloodless and lifeless. 

The static on a screen suddenly vanished, and the obscured face of the gruesome challenger popped back on.

“Look who’s tardy to the party!” Enigma said, with an obvious smug expression behind his mask, “You should go back to the Academy, Commish - unlike you, your boys were very lawful and punctual.”

“Who are you?” Gordon spoke dryly, “What do you want, and why did you just kill the former mayor?”

“I’m the Enigma, Jimbo.  _ Duh! _ See all the question marks on me? Mm? Mm?” 

“So you’re a Riddler fan, gotcha,” Jim continued just as dryly, looking over the rest of the horrified graduates and excited citizens with a complete tired wreck of a face. 

“Now…” The so-called Riddler fan continued, “What. Do I. Want. In fact, I want nothing! Nothing but justice for all and the righteous expression of my second and fifth amendment, Commish. Since the Enigma doesn’t exist, the Enigma isn’t responsible for what happened to former Mayor Hill. Plus, you know -  _ he lowkey kinda deserved it. _ And - you’re shit at your job! You must be thanking me! But ohhkay, you like your challenges, alright!”

“No, we-”

“Shhhh!” The hushing of Enigma’s matched with the static, “ _ Shush. _ Since you called me a fucking “Reedler fahhn,” here’s a quip - you’ll figure out who my next victim is if you guess it: A gilded cage is full of thorns, but not all that shines is gold. In it, a speechless fool with horns, attached to his head of old. Good luck again!  _ You’ll need it, piglets. _ ”

***

_ @Arkham Asylum, Gotham City: _

Back in the same place. Theodore’s already quite used to being restrained, muzzled, hell - even put into the most uncomfortable chair they could find in Arkham! Linda’s a real bitch to him, even though he’s trying his  _ very _ best to be nice. A compliant prisoner, who hasn’t broken down any rules thus far, who’s building up new social connections with Gotham’s worst, whose spirit has not been broken by the cruel warden, unlike those of many inmates still rocking in their chairs and flinching from every motion directed at them. 

But still, he has to sit in this stupid fucking chair and stare the stupid fucking mugs of masked guards down. They have guns - big guns at that! As well as numerous tasers, zip tie handcuffs, and so on. In essence, they’re prepared for his every trick - and it’s not like he’s resisting, or has any malicious intent. The door’s shut on three locks, and there is no one resting on the seat opposite to his. The silence is boring him out, but the pain in his jaw, ribs, and hips is both keeping him upward and sleepless. In spite of the numerous pills he’s been stuffed with. Again. 

A loud, pained squeak of the hinges made the White Rabbit squirm. Not before the locks could be heard flicking themselves open. The Headmaster’s silhouette showed itself in the shadows, before joining Theodore on the opposite end of the table. He looked content,  _ oddly _ content, though, his face kept a mostly neutral, light smile that was pretty much unreadable. With the guards shutting down that same door with that same nerve-wracking squeal, the Bunny’s light-blue, nigh-purple eyes trailed downward, in order to examine what exactly Dr. Strange brought for today’s talk.

“Good morning, Theodore,” Hugo said in the most soulless, corporate tone possible. 

“If ya call it good, Doc,” Rabbit spoke just as dismissively, “Not to be a downer, but it  _ could _ be better.”

“I know. Though, the fact I allow Dr. Bolton to indulge in her  _ own _ methods of research, does not mean I wholeheartedly approve of them.”

“I mean, y’can stop her.”

“Indeed I can,” Strange’s tone changed to a more sincere one, more filled with emotion. There is some drama in it, as well - especially with that pause! Both he and Theodore leaned in: “But why  _ would _ I, when there’s a chance for a grand study falling right into my hands?”

“True that,” White Rabbit lost hope for any sane kind of conversation by the moment, “I’m used to bein’ the lab rat, Doc…” Theo’s eyes trailed from one corner of the room to the other, “...Got the color for it, too.”

Surprisingly, his little quip made Dr. Strange chuckle. Finally, some actual, genuine laughter. Or, was it, really? Is anything ever genuine that comes from hardened shrinks like him? Theodore hoped so. Attachment was such a rare thing behind these walls - so what, even if it’s artificial. 

“Everyone is a lab rat here, Theodore. Even myself! I can’t know myself fully, not  _ yet. _ And so don’t you, right?”

“I uh… I suppose so, yeah,” Rabbit nodded one single time, and the guards already flinched plenty. 

“ _ Good, _ ” Hugo’s grin grew wider, “It may not seem so, but this is a place where we try to help people like you become more stable and realize their full potential. I am fairly certain you’re capable of much more than what you’ve done previously.  _ Not to diminish your previous achievements, of course- _ But yes. I’m not here to simply talk, Theodore - I’m here to establish something more than a doctor-patient relationship…”

Strange got up from his seat. He adjusted his glasses, and now stood  _ behind _ Theodore’s inconvenient, bolted chair. Much to everyone else’s confusion, one lock after the other, then the buckles, and the mainframe holding the mind-blocking circlet were slowly unlocked, unhinged, and broken. 

“What are you-”

“Shh,” Dr. Strange’s hands straightened the White Rabbit’s hair, and carefully put the tormenting contraption onto the table. Sears from extended shock therapy sessions carried out by Dr. Bolton still marked his forehead. Theodore looked… Tired. And confused. There was too much to process for him at the moment, and Hugo simply settled back onto his seat and smiled. He smiled  _ warmly. _

“But… Why, Doc?”

“Because I  _ trust  _ you. And I want you to trust  _ me. _ ”

“We are in an isolation chamber. All I could kill is you and these two fools.”

“I know. But you won’t. Because I trust you.”

“Who knows, Doc-”

“Call me Hugo, Theodore.”

“Yeah. Sure.  _ Hyoogo. _ I…” 

Theodore stopped in his tracks. Is this… Real attachment he’s feeling? A genuine connection between him and an older schmuck? An actual therapist, for once? He can’t hold it back, and so, a “Thank you, Hugo,” slips out of his throat like a ball of thorny fur. 

“ _ Ho-ho, _ it’s a pleasure!” Strange said a little louder and more dramatic than previously. He took his glasses off, and his gaze traversed the entire chamber, before landing on his two underlings. “Now, Theodore… I want for you to focus. Try to do something,  _ anything _ related to your abilities.”

“We are in an  _ isolated compartment _ , Hugo. There’s nothing to catch here! Not a single radio wave or piece of… Wait…” The White Rabbit sniffed around, like an attentive pointer of sorts. He leaned forward, trying to have a grasp at what exactly he’s “looking at”. 

“Focus,” Strange said, in a calming, soothing tone, “Close your eyes. You don’t need eyes to  _ see _ , if I remember correctly.”

Theodore obliged. He closed his eyes, took deep, steady breaths. “Yesssssshhh,” he stretched the hiss out into lispy static, instead. With sound traversing the enclosed, damp room. Hugo Strange watched with excitement and a healthy dose of anxiety as microscheme-like patterns appeared on the metahuman’s face, hands, and eyelids.

“Can you feel it?”

“Yeshhhh, Hugo~”

“Can you  _ use _ it, then? Can you  _ show _ me?”

“Yeshhh…”

The White Rabbit’s ears stopped hearing Dr. Strange whence the hissing of his own continued. Soon enough, he couldn’t even hear himself, letting pent-up anger and pain flow through his train of thoughts. Nothing but  _ anger _ filled him, for an unknown time. All he can feel, all he can  _ see _ is a leg, repeatedly kicking into flesh. There’s this, distinctly- _ squishy _ noise by the latter half of it. And, when the Bunny opened his eyes - he saw Dr. Strange next to him again. As well as the two guards. Or, well, their cadavers: 

One had his head cracked open, through his sturdy helmet and face mask, even. Remnants of his brains were scattered quite close to the sight of injury, in a messy, viscous puddle. Two also bashed his head, but a little less intensely - up against a table, to be specific. There’s a trail of blood going down from its smooth metallic corner, so one really  _ had  _ to put effort into doing something of the sort. Not entirely horrified, but more  _ curious _ of the outcome, Theo leaned back and raised his brow at the all-too excited and grinning Hugo.

“Did I… Did I actually do that?”

“Yes!!! Yes you did, Theodore, and you did a wonderful job!”

“I uh… I killed yer guards.”

“Obviously! But you did so without any help, without any motions - with your mere  _ thoughts. _ Imagine what you’ll achieve with my help, now. Do you…  _ Like, _ what you see?”

“Well,” Theo tilted his head, “Considering I have a  _ bird-bitch _ to dig out the grave and beat the livin’ hell out of, as well as business ideas, as  _ well _ as the fact I beat the crap outta schomeone with a prosthetic leg - I’m interested.”

“Good,” Hugo’s grin never wavered, “Then, for my help, I will ask for a favor…”

“Which one?” Bunny’s brow remained lifted, too, as Dr. Strange demonstrated a folder, with Batman’s symbol on it. 

  
“...I want to discover what lies beyond masks.  _ All _ masks that are worn in this city. And I will need your most discreet help with it.”


	22. Assault on Arkham

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is what it says it is! Enigma's preparing for a massive heist-slash-hostage operation in Arkham, revealing more and more of his plans as the operation progresses forth. The full extent of his influence & fortunes he's secretly built up is not yet revealed, but one thing is clear - the GCPD's management needs a rework, especially under Batman's guise. And a certain new Rogue has been a key instrument in fulfilling Ethan's devious plans all along.

_ @Arkham Asylum, Gotham City: _

There is always a glimmer of hope, though hope is but a glimmer behind those thick walls. It was a padded chamber beforehand, but its smooth leather coating, as well as the actual soft foam that held it together, was stripped and replaced with lead, instead. Coated in that same white leather, which was stained by a century of being in active use. And in it, Theodore’s skin was whiter than those “white” walls. Everything in Arkham is either white or gray or that puke-like green color. At least it had some variety over the damp white and  _ gray _ everywhere. 

It isn’t the brutal beatings and punishments for misbehaving that weathered him down - it’s the complete and utter boredom. As well as the mortifying ordeal of being known. 

The White Rabbit’s eyes did not move. Nor did they close down to catch some rest. The whites were nearly as pink as his irises. Distant, faint screams and sobs were a constant part of his life in an Arkham cell. By this point - they’re nothing but  _ white noise _ to his tinnitus-laden ears. That stuck-up bitch Linda and her shock therapy left him hearing high-pitched noises besides his voice, by this point! How crazy must he be? Though, it’s not like Theodore feels  _ special, _ or anything. That sadist treats every prisoner equally - much like a warden, not a therapist she is supposed to be. Naturally, he held a grudge! Everyone did. But, most were also afraid of her, and so was he. At least, deep within, in an area of his psyche he was not yet ready to acknowledge. 

Sleeping is a necessity and a luxury. On one hand, the orderlies constantly forced sleep onto others through sedatives, but one could barely call it sleep, since hearing and feeling everything, yet not being able to move, is not nearly the rest one requires. On the other hand, a bratty inmate could be sleep-deprived for days on end, in a desperate, yet futile attempt to quench the malicious thoughts about the guards and the shrinks that are keeping him up. As a result, there’s no such thing as sleep in a normal understanding - there is only sleep in the doctors’ understanding, as little and unprofessional as it is. 

There’s plenty of piled-up anger within the frail and small bunny. There is always a need to scream into a pillow, but Dr. Bolton would immediately classify it as severe anger issues and add some more drugs to get addicted to. Not like it’s a  _ bad _ thing on their own, but when they’re put together? Oh, it’s worse than a Long Island Iced Tea hangover. Theodore felt exactly that. He’s puked, what? About four times today? Considering how much he lost weight, his ribs were more-than visible, and the overall malnourishment that comes with staying in Arkham sure is a dream for any pussies too afraid to don a diet at home. 

There’s still hope, though. A glimmer of it, but it’s still there. 

Suddenly, the locks in his personal cell creaked and bucked. Someone’s coming in - probably Linda. Yeah, judging by the hums of a deep female voice, it sure is her. Or Cheryl. But unlike Linda, Cheryl ain’t no bootlickin’  _ bitch _ , in spite of being a god-damn cop. He wasn’t ready to see anyone at any point right now, but hey - for Linda, he’ll become a sassy, annoying cunt once again! Huzzah! The drab face transforms into the brightest it’s been since getting locked up in here, and, of course - it’s Linda’s mug showing through the door.

“Heyyyy, Doc~” The White Rabbit’s voice reached an ear-piercing pitch, “Th’up? Cat caught your tongue? Or cut your tail?”

“You did notice,” Linda said monotonously, “I don’t know if I should be flattered or concerned. Looks like someone’s developing  _ Stockholm  _ over here. Get off the bench - I need to talk to you. Privately.”

“Go ahead!” Theodore obliged immediately, “I’m all-ears. It’s as private as it gets!”

Linda  _ did  _ cut her hair. Instead of a bland lobcut, her hair at the back was trimmed short. Perhaps a bit  _ too _ short, even. The only remnant of that former cut were the bangs and the untrimmed front ‘tails’ of sorts. It looked… Good, on her. Theodore could almost say he doesn’t recognize her, but the perfect eyeliner and ice-colored scleras give it away in an instant. 

“So,” Rabbit raised his brow, “What’s the  _ deal, _ Doc? Will ya punish me again, for something? Or will you give me yet another diagnosis to prolong my sentence and try to diminish me completely?”

“Neither,” She said just as bluntly, and settled on the cold, hard floor with a cold, hard brick of a face. “I know of you and your little miscreants, Bunny. I know that you’ll try to break out. I do not know when, how, or who will help you from the other side. The  _ names _ on the other side - that’s what I need from you.”

“Wait-”

A moment of doubt got Theodore socked in the gut. Seemingly, Linda was pissed off and chose to revoke her peaceful ways a minute after entering his cell. The Bunny took it in, gawking and hunching over. There was no chance to call upon Strange here - who he already considered his ally. Nor was Ogilvy in the same block as him. The signals didn’t come through, still, but of course - Theo knew Hugo’s watching him, and he’s ready to come in at any given moment. That is exactly what gave him that same glimmer of hope. 

And yet, Dr. Bolton did not go on, even as the White Rabbit glared up at her, with as much defiance as he could muster up in his tired, slumberous state. Linda lowered herself down, as well, her tone lowering down in volume. Her cold hand suddenly became gentle, in spite of the shudders that it caused in the frail, diminished man. Although there was still a harsh exterior in Dr. Bolton, it’s obvious to Theodore that it was done in order to cover something up. As per usual, he was right.

“I think Dr. Strange is planning something,” Linda said, as if it was some kind of great revelation, “I have not seen him out of office in a couple of days. I need your help with that, specifically.”

In spite of being scared straight, Theodore rolled his eyes and settled on the cold, hard floor, as if he’s modelling for his doctor instead of being interrogated by her: “Aw yeah? And what’sch in it fer  _ me? _ Not gettin’ beaten?”

“A favor,” Linda hissed back, “And I won’t, uh. Use force. Not nearly as much-”

“Why should I trust you?”

“I’m talking to you. I wouldn’t if I just came here to carry out justice.”

Theodore had to think for a moment. Then, with a squint, he gave Linda a nod, leaning into her body with his cold cheeks and matchingly-colder fingers:

“Yeah- that makes sense,” he whispered, “But how can I- OOMF!”

Another hit to the chest forced the breath out of Theodore, with Dr. Bolton’s face leaning in rather close, for her final words:

“Consider it. And you may be set free sooner than I’ll snap your spinal cord.”

With that said, the White Rabbit stretched himself out on the cold, hard, white floor, and then shakily got up from the floor and landed back onto the surprisingly-welcoming mattress of his bed. He wrapped himself into a blanket - the only shell of comfort available in his holding cell. Hot breath, the only heating element available currently, made sure his skeletal fingers were now held in relative comfort. The soles were still cold and ghastly, but so was he, as a whole. There were so many factions in the Asylum it’s hard to make a choice. In fact - Theodore did not  _ want _ to make that choice. He didn’t want to participate in their silly games, to be a pawn in it, and finally - the realization of that reached his chip-laden mind. 

The White Rabbit cried. He chose to do so, because there is nothing else left to do. Because there’s too much noise in his head, and too many thoughts piling up there. Because exhaustion’s taking the remnants of life and hope out of him. And so - he cried himself to sleep, quietly, and away from the public eye. Finally, the absence of cameras (at least those he could detect) felt somewhat-comforting. Tomorrow is a new day, but it will feel the same. 

It’s about time to make sure it won’t with the decision he has to make.

***

_ @Warehouse District, Gotham City: _

Another transition, another execution, ended. A keyboard’s clicking, however, was still rather audible. Those fast-paced clicks were scattered across the Enigma’s entire headquarters, echoing and bouncing off the corners, as if tiny androids replying in assurance to their master’s commands. It’s the same equipment he used as Blacksun to work with Batgirl and decimate the Rockhopper’s organization - this caused trouble, for it’s only a matter of time until any one of the Bats discovered he got through multiple layers of security and used the knowledge he’s been taught to enact both justice and malice upon Gotham’s crime rings. Oh wait - he’s  _ already _ doing that. 

Except, it was no problem at all.

Ethan grew to like resourcefulness. There always has to be a backup plan, especially when working with such top-notch folk as the Oracle, who he still saw as his ultimate opponent… Besides the Riddler, of course. Naturally, justice couldn’t be enacted without proper funds, so the clerks at the Wayne Foundation have already discovered their accounts totalling to zero, in accordance to his predictions. No wonder Gotham of all cities falls into utter disarray whence any attack goes by - they’ve grown  _ comfortable _ with the Bat. Only a further advantage to the elusive mask with a green question mark on it. 

For once, the constant taps and clicks stopped. There was nothing to save in this dainty, moist space - it is no longer his home, since Ethan Nygma is no longer Blacksun. He took both the mask and the bowler hat off, the monocle awkwardly dropping off his fish-eye in the process. Finally, he could let his skin breath. The synthetic parts of it smelled  _ horrible _ under long exposure to the body’s natural fluids, so there had to be a constant flow of fresh air to keep it alive, in essence. Both eyes of his slowly traveled across the workshop. Plenty of mysterious, mannequin-like contraptions have been hidden beneath multiple tarps. Whilst remaining in the shadows, Ethan strolled over to one of them, took the tarp off, and, after glancing one last time at his old suit, tossed said tarp over it. 

“I can hear your steps,” he said, “And I remember telling you to be as quiet as possible,  _ Hatter. _ ”

And it was, indeed, Jervis Tetch. He arrived with a little present for the Enigma - the newest, upgraded model of his brainwashing cards, a ton of them, stacked neatly in his hat’s innards. The Hatter’s wide grin and glassy eyes appeared before the rest of him did, akin to Cheshire Cat’s mystical presence: “I know, chap! But I couldn’t resist making a proper  _ presentation  _ of those, you see.”

Enigma turned to face the Mad Hatter with a completely drab and hollow face, which matched his tone almost perfectly: “The GCPD will be here any minute now. You shouldn’t have come.”

“But I did! And I want you to take it.”

“I appreciate the gesture,” Ethan took the hat and examined the product, “But you could have just sent me a letter instead of coming here in person. S’ too dangerous for you.”

“Awh, and when did you start caring for me, dear Mr. Nygma?~” Jervis’s grin never wavered, though, he took his hat back and planted it on his bulbous head as soon as Ethan’s done examining and stacking it in. 

Both of them knew what the Hatter’s waiting for. And finally, Ethan understood why he decided to come and witness the so-called “Great Awakening” personally. The tarps dropped down one by one after the Enigma put his costume back on, revealing nothing more but ratchet-looking, metallic carcasses, which were more akin to mannequins than actual robots, since half of their padding was stored in thermo-regulated plastic. This uncanny humanoid look made Tetch both uncomfortable and thrilled with all the hard work Ethan’s put into their operation. And of course - the slots in the backs of their heads were meant  _ exactly  _ for the cards he’s prepared in advance. 

One after the other, those cards were slotted into at least three scores of armored machines. Not yet activated, but certainly ready for the first boot-up. Jervis prepared sixty-one of those - the first differentiating from the rest. 

“And, here comes the cherry on top,” Ethan’s voice finally gained some melody when he put the first card onto the bowler hat. And, with it already being present on Enigma's hooded head, a  _ wave _ of green beams coming from the empty eyelids looked like a scene straight out of the sci-fi movie. Much to the Hatter’s excitement. 

“Great!” Jervis squeaked after a moment of silence, “Now - how do we get all of them to-”

“Underground,” A swift reply followed, “There is a system of catacombs beneath the city that the  _ Owls  _ left after their departure. I already know most of the ways that could lead us to Arkham. Both of us.”

“But… Why not simply let them use the jet contraptions?” Tetch pointed at said jetpacks on the now booted-up machines. 

“Because we need maximum secrecy. Period. We’re being watched right now, most probably, by someone.”

“From where?”

“The roofs. The rafters. Anywhere.”

“And what if-”

“No,” Ethan said dryly, “We stick to the plan. As strictly as possible.”

“Fine, you  _ Queen of Spades, _ ” Jervis’s palms twirled around as he strolled in between the robots and spoke in a sing-song tone, “What do we do now that we’ll have Bullock and his Bulldogs busting through the Rabbit Hole at any point in the nearest future? I’m just curious,  _ for it’s getting curiouser and curiouser- _ ”

“You’re nervous. Is there a problem, Hatter?”

“Oh no! Not at all, friend! I am simply… N-Not very comfortable in the dark…”

“You’ll be fine. The Bat will be distracted. I’ll keep the base in working order with a pair of my soldiers.  _ Our _ soldiers.”

“So uhm… I get the Bunny, and you get the rest, mmn?”

“Something of the sort. I need the attention of both Penguin and Riddler. A mass breakout-turned abduction will attract lots of it, from all sides.”

“Fine, so. When, do we jump down, that, Rabbit Hole?”

01 and 02 stepped forth and took the two seats of both Ethan and Jervis at their places, respectively. The keyboards’ clicking commenced once more, as a small latch in the headquarters’ floor slowly opened up; it was quite narrow and invisible when enclosed, with the rusty and slippery ladder being the only way down. It’s also quite deep. 

The Hatter gulped aloud, but what made him truly shaken-up were the loud footsteps on cold concrete, echoing through the warehouse and coming from the outside - right next to its heavy metal gates. Smoke grenades came through the busted windows and landed close to where the robots once stood. One by one, they jumped in, and disappeared in the literal underworld of Gotham City. Ethan hopped right down after they dispersed, in the exact moment the lock started giving in. He told Hatter one last, dry sentence before it all went dark: “ **We’re jumping in now - no way back from this.** ”

***

_ @Arkham Asylum, Gotham City: _

Dr. Jeremiah Arkham’s shift ends with the sunset. His  _ day shift, _ that is. There are no weekends for someone who runs such an old and decrepit place as Arkham Asylum… Nominally. He’s used to being the Queen of England here - a mere figurehead with differing opinions about himself, but a figurehead, nevertheless. And, considering how Arkham  _ used to be  _ a detached state at more-than one point in Gotham’s wretched history, this makes him king - a tired, aging, and fairly unhinged ruler at that. 

After a long and arduous day of moving from one corner of the building to the other, Jerry anticipated his meeting with Dr. Jonathan Crane - formerly known as Scarecrow. His palms were sweaty and his pupils dilated at the thought of Dr. Crane joining him again, as a  _ sane _ man this time. One thing Dr. Arkham sincerely hoped for (it was visible on his face) that returning to the Asylum won’t trigger some of the less  _ pleasant  _ memories about him, and therefore - unleash the beast that lies within Dr. Crane once again. That was his only concern for the evening - Jerry even prepared strong, black coffee for the two of them to enjoy at a more or less civilized discussion in a civilized environment (it being his office). 

Nothing, absolutely nothing out of the ordinary’s supposed to happen. Such was the feeling of this quiet night, and the coarse smell of cheap coffee reassured Dr. Arkham he’s right about that. Only in theory. 

A quiet knock at the wired glass of his door disturbed Jeremiah’s quiet. For a moment, there was excitement in his eyes, to the point where his glasses simply fell off his face! But then, as the silhouette turned out to be not Jonathan’s, he huffed in an expression of suppressed disappointment. 

“Come in,” his voice was deliberately made drab and hollow, “But it better be quick, Dr. Bolton.”

Linda’s voice sounded just as damp: “It won’t take much of your time, Dr. Arkham. In fact - only twelve seconds, according to my calculations.”

Loud, metallic thumping, as well as distant screams and squelches, came from the other side. They did until said thumping appeared right behind his desk. Dr. Arkham didn’t dare look back as Dr. Bolton quietly entered. She looked… Different: Firstly, she wore an underdeveloped balaclava, which was more of a half-mask, now that Jerry took a good look at it. Furthermore - she wore  _ way _ too much eyeshadow. A combat-grade jacket of urban camo with matching cargo pants and polished black combat boots ensured she looked as threatening as possible, and the blue turtleneck underneath, as well as a chain belt wrapped around the waist, were presumably an homage to her Uncle. Jerry finally understood Arkham got tired of his leadership, so he sat there, waiting. 

Linda’s really quick and professional with her actions. One step - and Dr. Arkham is pinned to his chair. One flick of her arm - and the taser’s jammed up into his neck. Sixty thousand volts went through his body on the eighth second, a green, masked silhouette appearing on the tenth, his brain shutting down by the twelfth. With a job-well-done, the elusive Enigma finally stepped out of the shadows proper, alongside two of his grand, automated helpers. The use of zip ties would prevent metal detectors from going off whence hostages were carried out of the building - they had pretty much the same purpose as the plastic that coated the machines’ outer layer. Dr. Bolton found it uncanny, but it’s best not to ask questions when true justice is being fulfilled… In her own eyes. 

Enigma also had a briefcase to hand over. After putting the taser back into its holster, Linda took said briefcase, examined the goods with a blank face, and left it on Dr. Arkham’s desk.

“I don’t do this for money,” she said. 

“But you will still get it - as a cover-op,” Ethan replied. 

“What’s your status?”

“All getaways - blocked, the surveillance system - jammed, GCPD’s navigation - decimated. No chance of a Bat-problem - he’s distracted.”

“Good. What of the control room and the general area?”

“Also secured. Dr. Strange is locked in his own office - so is the pacified Dr. Arkham. The floor is yours.”

“And the inmates are  _ yours. _ ”

Their delightful small victory was interrupted by something stirring up in one of the machines’ arms: It’s the Hatter. In his old Arkham uniform. Properly detained and delivered to Dr. Bolton. 

“Here. Something else you requested,” Ethan spoke while checking the cameras, as the machines moved according to his will to and from the underground tunnels. As well as the Asylum, itself. No bat in sight. Good. Linda took Jervis in money’s stead - such is Enigma’s gift; one always has to make a choice. And, after a long pause, his brow visibly raised, while Dr. Arkham was stowed away in his own closet:

“...You realize you’re committing a crime, right?”

Linda furrowed her brows in response. Silently, she turned to face Ethan right as he was about to exit into the main hallway, therefore blocking it with her bulky frame. 

“It’s not a crime if it’s done to improve the system,” she said sternly, “Regardless of what Gotham’s corrupt judges say. I’m not doing it for you, or anyone else besides the late Uncle - I’m doing it to purge Gotham of its filth. And - you’re my  _ ally _ because you’re the most sensible of prospective leaders.”

“Oh,” Ethan replied distantly, “So you do have ideals. How  _ curious. Ironic, _ even. Considering  _ who _ your uncle was.”

“A fascist?” Dr. Bolton’s disappointment was oozing through her voice, “Well, it’s a popular  _ opinion. _ Still, he’s the only one who cared for me when the rest threw me away, and the animals behind these glass walls killed him. I’ll have my revenge, no matter what the dirty-ass pigs think of that.”

“ _ Yeah, cool sob story, _ ” Ethan mumbled dismissively, “But look, I still have a  _ dad _ to prove a point against, so, if you could? Please?”

“Sure,” Linda stepped away from the exit and threw a long, predatory look down upon the sedated, garbling, giggling Hatter. He’s a truly pathetic little man. So pathetic, in fact, she’s stuffing him under the desk in case the plan goes south. To her surprise, Nygma remained in the office, thinking. She herself had to reconsider. After all, if Enigma could betray a naive and gullible midget - would he try and betray her on a high ride of confidence? Perhaps. But, she will be prepared. After all, Ethan Nygma remained nothing but a gray intern sucking up to elders in her eyes. And, indeed - she knew him from the  _ Star City _ days. He’s obviously changed, but did he evolve? Not one bit.  _ Good for her. _

“Thank you,” Ethan spoke with sincerity, “Thank you for helping me do this. You, um… Are a key instrument in enforcing justice upon those pieces of shit.” He stretched his hand out, visibly smiling to her under his question-marked sack of burlap. Feeling the genuine streak of emotion coming from him, Dr. Bolton shook his hand: 

“Lest We Forget,  _ Enigma. _ ”

“Lest We Get Caught,  _ Lockdown. _ ”

“Well… I’ll be going,” Enigma retracted his hand as it started to burn again, leaving a pair of his guards to remain with Lockdown. He tried to stroll out casually, but it only devolved into further awkwardness, so he tried to leave Dr. Arkham’s office as soon as possible. 

Ethan’s stroll grew much more confident as he finally entered the main hallway: It was pure, unadulterated  _ chaos: _ With multiple security breaches conducted, the cells were open, and a wave of loons poured out of it like sewage poured out into Sprang River. Naturally, they tried to cling to his elaborately-built machines, but they repelled them with shock ‘therapy’ and sturdy metal batons. Sounds of breaking bones, screams, cussing, and that same, orderly metallic thumping, turned into a symphony most fitting to Arkham in such a desperate time. There were no escapes, no loopholes left. Except… There were.

Enigma caught a glimpse of something pale and  _ spindly _ in the corner of his only healthy eye. It immediately disappeared behind… An entrance to the rooftop. Squinting for a good moment, Ethan slowly, casually paced towards said entrance, his pace intensifying to the point where he rushed forth and roughly pushed the door open, letting the cold air rush down the stairs. He jumped up and nearly slipped on the slippery olden tiles of rusty metal as he made his way through. 

It’s too late. There’s a helicopter waiting for certain someones on the other side of the roof! And those people were the inmates: Emperor Penguin, Professor Pyg, Flamingo, and most importantly - White Rabbit, someone  _ he _ was responsible for putting into Arkham. The latter turned around and let the frills on his uniform twirl along his waist, the oversized shirt turned to shreds by long exposure to Dr. Bolton’s care. 

Furious, Ethan rushed forth, but only heard an echoing giggle before his world went dark. He was tased. From the front. Shit, right! The ‘henna’ on Theodore’s hands was glowing like lightbulbs! And speaking of those - they busted. Sounds of a roaring crowd from below made the roof vibrate. All the lights went out, and the shockwave still rang in his bright little noggin. Ogilvy and Eagleton threw one last glance at their baffled rescuer, and then disappeared in the night, with only the loud flaps of their aircraft echoing through Enigma’s head for the better part of a minute. But, in spite of losing such valuable prisoners… Ethan smiled with a full smile. He got up, and went back inside, ready to push the second wave of security bots forth. 

All according to plan. It’s all going according to plan. 


	23. The Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The White Rabbit, the Emperor Penguin, Professor Pyg, Flamingo, and the captive Hugo Strange escape a grand purge of the Enigma's robots! And they find an unexpected, yet very handy exit route. 
> 
> Joshua Cobblepot obtains superpowers! And quite possibly goes on the first mission. Still getting bullied by the asshole idol of his, though. 
> 
> Shit goes nuts! The Batman infiltrates the Iceberg and tries to confront the Penguin, but the Riddler steps in and the two of them bully him into fulfilling his civic duties. Speaking of civic duties - Eddie has been hired by Commissioner Gordon. Both he and Oz see the opportunity of making amends to Ethan for all the neglect and wrongdoing they have done in the past.

_ @Diamond District, Gotham City: _

“Faster, faster!” The White Rabbit’s panicked wails ring across the helicopter cabin’s tight confines. It’s definitely not meant to lift as many people as it did, and it is already running on too little fuel to speed up. There are five people in this small ride, and they have the god-damn  _ Batman _ chasing after them! Seems like most of the robots are left for his Birdies to deal with. Theodore understood his brain feels way too meager to crack through the Bat’s protection, but he tries anyway - and fails. “Agh-  _ fffuck! _ ” Theodore growls. It hurts. It hurts a lot. He’s getting a nosebleed! Meanwhile, Ogilvy and Pyg remain calm. Why are they so chill? They’re falling down, damn it!

Shit got real very fast, as the two PD helis began pressing them down from both sides. 

Dr. Hugo Strange laid beneath four and a half men, as Thasius came to the rescue of his master - Ignatius Ogilvy. His mouth’s taped shut, the zipties press way too hard into the skin of his wrists, but oh - he’s willing to take it, so long as he sees the Batwing chasing them, as well as the Batman’s cowl being taken off by the Emperor Penguin. 

Ogilvy himself maintains a degree of both calm and caution, looking out the window every once in a while. Neither polluted air, nor the occasional spires swinging right by his head, bother him. Crimson eyes spot the Batwing, as well, though, they’re quickly blinded by the amount of light the lanterns on that elaborate plane shine into them. “Argh, the  _ bitch! _ ” Iggy cussed out afterward, roughly grabbing onto the busted door and holding it closed as the local SWAT team pelted their aircraft with lead. Pyg’s singing his little songs again - Eduardo’s the only capable pilot, and he looks  _ pissed. _

Eventually, the Batwing catches up, and the next lane appears to be surrounded by cops. They’ll get apprehended way before they could land. Flamingo, being the unhinged bastard that he is, slams the steering wheel forth and makes the helicopter tumble over. It’s one hell of a barrel roll - Theodore’s puking blood all over Pyg, who’s not fazed at all, and then falls out of the aircraft first-hand. Granted, Ogilvy’s still not human by this point (thanks to Dr. Strange), and he takes both him and the Bunny by their feet, armwings flapping with all their might to try and land them somewhere close to a normal, less cop-infested spot. 

In spite of such a horrible idea, all five are safe - while the heli’s crashing into a blockade in a huge, Hollywood-esque explosion. All that ammo must have been a hassle to get on there - once again, thanks go out to Dr. Strange for having such a handy private reserve. And thanks to Theodore, as well -  _ he _ discovered it, after all! Still - there’s a Bat on their backs, and they’re already going down below, seemingly losing him for a crucial moment. Naturally, since there’s a latch nearby - the escapees jump into the sewers. 

Relief. It feels  _ relieving _ to be away from the public eye. And although the nasty sloshing under their feet, as well as the smell, nearly make Strange barf through the tape - there is a relative sense of safety that drags itself over Theodore, Iggy, Laszlo and Eduardo as they venture forth. At least Ogilvy has the decency not to throw the captive shrink into the mud and whatever else flows in its ditches. Doc looks scared - as he should be. But now, it’s time to calm down. And the escapees  _ did _ calm down, at least for the moment they couldn’t hear the steps behind them. Those heavy, threatening steps. 

No one knew for how long they went, or how far these tunnels really stretch. No one had a map, either - the only member that’s not blind among all the fugitives is, of course, Ogilvy - he’s a  _ Man-Bat, _ so of course he’d spot any bastard that decided to go down! Thankfully, no one did. And even as the heavy steps continued chasing them, there were no heat-tracks or apparitions around. For the time being - but the steps were loud and demonstrative, and they multiplied by the minute! 

“It’sch probably all the people above,” The Bunny stepped in and took a grasp of Ignatius’s wrist. 

“You’re right,” Ogilvy grumbled, “But there’s also the option of a Bat being somewhere. I’m sure he’s found a way to hide himself by now, even from  _ creatures _ like me. Isn’t that right, Herr Doktor?” A heavy set of pats landed on Strange’s back - that made him wake up and squirm again. His muffled complaints might cause an additional headache, so Theodore’s hand lands on that bald scalp and puts him down in a flick of his wrist. 

Though, in retrospective - it was pointless, as Pyg continued humming his symphonies and subtly twirling himself around in a covert victory dance. That made Theodore stifle a chuckle. As well as the enormously dead-inside face of Flamingo, who’s ready to bite into Strange’s flesh the second he tried falling off their leader’s shoulders. Although glitching out from immense exhaustion, the White Rabbit’s vision was, too, a fair bit enhanced. Sure, some monitors could help demonstrate a bigger picture, but right now - all he has is his eyes and voice to guide his folk through. 

“Turn left,” he said, “Then we need to walk until we hit a dead end. There’sch cops chasin’ us from the right.”

“How do you- Nevermind,” Ogilvy grumbled more, alongside Flamingo and Strange, who was apparently bleeding from his wrists from the amount of times he tried getting closer to the Bat. 

Boy he’s just as obsessed and manic as the rest of them, isn’t he? 

It’s hard to trust the words of someone as powerful as the White Rabbit. However, the rest of the accidental allies had no other choice. After all, the steps  _ were _ getting closer, and whoever made them walked at a much faster pace than previously, whoever it may be. Everyone had an idea or two. Either some bot this Enigma figure sent, or worse. The best option is to dig themselves out of the underground and just walk the line. Ditch the clothes. People will pay less attention to some naked-ass dudes than Arkham uniform-wearing dudes, in Theodore’s imagination. Hence why all he has on are his heart-print trunks. 

Unsurprisingly, it is fairly warm underground. Packs of hungry rats running around, as well as the stench, were the only discomforting aspects of it. Not that Ogilvy or Valentin or Eagleton weren’t used to it. Finally, they’ve reached a dead end, and Theodore’s hands reached forth, the ‘hennah’ on his hands appearing once more, and glowing with more intensity than seen by Iggy previously. 

“There,” he said, shutting his eyes and moving forth. He wasn’t moving up, on the contrary - the palms of his touched the ground, and eventually found a small latch, which he couldn’t quite pull away. “I… Will need help here, guysch.”

“As if it’s not locked-  _ Owh, hrk~ _ ” Ogilvy socked Pyg in the gut, silently moving forward alongside Theodore to help him pull the latch up. It sure is tough, but not as tough as he is in this mutated state. Plus, the bark-like skin Poison Ivy ‘donated’ to him helped break through the boards that were used as an additional cover. 

Sounds of trains made the Emperor Penguin shudder. It’s a Gotham Metro tunnel. With working trains presumably still going through its nethers. A sniff of concern came from him, as well; it smells like… Sulfur. “We have to move,” Ignatius said, right as Theodore collapsed on all-fours and barfed a puddle of bile and blood out in front of everyone. 

“Fucking  _ hell, _ Bunny. Are you still with us?”

“Yup! Yup. Jus’ gimme a minute-”

“We don’t have a minute, Theodore. We have to go. You know the way, so lead us.”

“I… Well… Yeah, I can  _ see _ it, and it’s not far, or anything…”

“Wouldn’t it be more ethical to simply leave him here, Mister Ogilvy?” Dr. Valentin’s sing-song voice interrupted more puking noises.

“No!” Ignatius snarled, “He’s a key to the safehouse, and therefore - a key member to the operation.”

“Hey, it’s a mere  _ suggestion, _ Monsieur. Because look at the little fellow! So much suffering, ah!”

“Ghmf- Mmbm hrmf?”

“ _ Quiet Strange- _ If you feel bad - I’ll carry you, Theodore. Right now, I do not  _ care _ how much is put unto my shoulders,” the heroism of Iggy’s seemed to be genuine, “Because every member of the Emperor’s Court counts. Let us move forth!” 

The White Rabbit would be weirded out by this Circus of Strange spinoff, if he weren’t so tired and sickly at this very moment. Lazily and meagerly, he took a grasp of Ignatius’s hand, and laid on Dr. Strange. Oh yes - this is comfortable! And the stench is no longer this bad. All he had to do is mutter out directions, which he still had the capability to do. Much to his own surprise. Bunny's legs went  _ numb, _ Ogilvy and Pyg’s quips were a mere echo in his ears, but soon enough - he’s found the door. Simply pointing at it was enough for Iggy to recognize the secret passage to the sewers. It’s too early to celebrate, as the thumping intensified once more, but there was at least some hope of reaching the venue.  _ His  _ venue. 

When buying over the property and transforming it into the Empyrean, Ignatius Ogilvy looked through it  _ all. _ With Theodore passing out from both fatigue and blood loss, there was no need for him any longer. Though, tossing him aside would mean he will lose another useful asset - and he cannot afford it right now. Even though the Bunny is plenty annoying. At least he isn’t trying too hard, like Pyg does. Everyone’s plenty annoying in his perspective, come to think of it, but it’s best to maintain the appeal rather than eat raw- Disappoint others’ expectations in terms of his high-class ass. 

The door’s heavy enough to discourage any ordinary man from opening it. The Owls’ catacombs remained a very useful feature, even after their mysterious disappearance. That said, the grimy tunnel ended, and a secret, armored elevator stood before the entire group. While Pyg and Flamingo celebrated, hugged, kissed, and did whatever else more theatrical folk do, Iggy dropped down to his knees, and smushed his dark-blue, hardened face up against the shut windows. 

They made it. They actually made it. 

***

_ @Robbinsville, Gotham City: _

Assemble. Load. Shoot three rounds. Disassemble. Repeat. Such was the routine of Joshua’s at the makeshift shooting range in Jason’s off-road condo. The building itself was abandoned, and gunshots are frequent in the area. Nothing unusual - Robbinsville and Park Row are neighboring towns, and the latter’s literally known as Crime Alley. No one around would be scared of random Glock sounds. And yes, indeed - Josh was told to work with a Glock. Then an M9. Then a P229. And a whole load of guns. To be frank, this wasn’t just the “good training” he expected from his problematic idol: This was  _ heaven _ for the reforming Rockhopper. 

Countless hours were spent in studies, in the ring, hell - even in this corridor with targets! The key of his style were swift, assertive motions. Renegade didn’t change that. Instead, he let it flourish, and Josh reached considerable success thus far. It's getting all the harder, all the more grueling in terms of his training - especially since his leg still flips out on occasion - but because the “birdkid” is kept  _ this _ busy, he can’t even notice that except an occasional outburst during sparring. 

Nothing could be better than this right now. Except for vengeance. 

There’s a distinct bond forming between the two of them. An unquestioning sense of loyalty that’s been buried in the Rockhopper’s mind returning after years of absence, lost hope, and desperation to simply survive. Back then, in Vlatavograd’s catacombs, there was nothing. Nothing but the rags he’s been put into, the bandages around his face & missing nose, as well as a hammer. Nothing but a rusty, bloodied hammer, with which he carved, no, smashed his way upward - back to light. The light he didn’t love any longer. 

Josh thought about it way too often. Because it’s a good stimulus to move forth. To never forget about what can happen when there’s no one to lean on. Right now, Jason’s the only person he can trust - not that he  _ can _ be really trusted, anyway. Though, a Cobblepot is content with a mere position. Especially this breed of Cobblepot - whenever he understands his position, that is:

The Rockhopper is an  _ asset. _ Not even a sidekick. A content, covert, cunning  _ asset _ . A wildcard, to an extent - to use either as cannon fodder or as an element of surprise. Most would want to move up - after all, this is the reason most Robins quit after three to four years of service, the many of them that worked for Batman over his career. Jason Todd’s different. And so is he. Both of them know they’re wildcards for each of their families, and honestly? That’s what makes them get along. As well as the desire to move away from that main-character crap and just do the job on the sidelines.  _ While still getting that same, high-inducing dose of adrenaline. _

Assemble. Load. Shoot three rounds. Disassemble. Repeat. Another round of training done. The targets are hit. Not exactly where they should land, but for his style of combat? It should be good enough. Drenched in sweat and with his hands now shaking more than they ever did, Josh marked down the scores in a lousy-looking notebook and took a seat on an old, decrepit, bent bench he’s got in a bed’s stead. Laying down, he could feel the fingers going numb, and some strange… Inscriptions appear. Both in his mind and hindsight. Which soon became the foresight. Until his vision became clogged up with varying formulas and geometric figures. 

Now that was trippy.

Joshua didn’t manage to get any rest. There’s no  _ time _ for it - not anymore. Not when he’s having some kind of clairvoyance. At first, his vision is floaty with all the letters and lines it is seeing. Cobblepot nearly tripped over his own legs as his balance was now lost. He started regaining it soon enough, and, with the vision stabilizing - Josh saw the world better than he did beforehand. He  _ stood _ better, too. In fact, there was absolutely no nausea in him whatsoever. 

Wait, now. It happened before. When he was crawling out of the tunnels, as well as crawling his way  _ towards _ this place. He saw these formulas beforehand! Josh didn’t fully understand what it was - but his intuition worked in his mind’s stead. Now he could  _ see _ the possible trajectories of where his hammers or bullets would be going. He  _ knew _ just how a gun operated - both in theory and in practice. So - another round of the practice part won’t hurt, right? 

It did hurt. What it felt was more like a red-hot rod slowly going through his forehead rather than an average migraine. But Josh could see - and he could see perfectly. His actions were just as swift: Assemble. Load. Shoot three rounds. Disassemble. Repeat. Assemble. Load. Shoot three rounds. Disassemble. Repeat. Every single time the bullet hit the exact same spot, as Josh has already calculated the recoil, the angle, and the trajectory it went. Somehow. He couldn’t figure it out. At all! And yet his mind was racing with many different thoughts, each impulse causing that same, burning, nagging pain. His eyes were bleeding, but in all the red - he had 20/20 vision all over again. 

The Rockhopper didn’t notice Jason’s return. “Impressive,” he said, “I see you have been working-  _ Holy fuck, kid. You aight? _ ”

Josh looked anything but alright. Pallid as hell, with his venal blood darkening and his eyes completely and utterly bloodshot. Oh - and drenched in cold, yellow-tinted sweat, as well. “Y… Yeah,” Joshua said in a hollow and absent tone, a strand of drool running down his chin. “What’s up, Boss?”

“Uh. Ogilvy escaped,” Jason said in a very blunt and straightforward manner. As per usual. Still looked weirded-out by Cobblepot’s zombie-like looks - must be the Lazarus Water aftereffects. “Alongside some extras. Your hackerman included.”

“Who… Theodore?” A glint of hope and regret could be heard in the disassociating vulture’s voice, his eyes trailing back down and repeating the same process he did beforehand. Same target. Same spot. Before he could fire the last shot, Renegade stopped the Rockhopper and forced the gun out of his corpse-cold, waxy hands. Jason looked Joshua straight in the eyes, and all he could see is this distinct thousand-yard stare. Someone’s going through one hard-ass flashback - or so he thinks. 

“Yeah. Theodore Eagleton. Nee Sokoloff.”

“Boss…?”

“Kid, you need to sit the fuck  _ down. _ Y’look like the Corpse Husband, fucking hell!”

“Boss?”

“Yeah, yeah, s’up?”

“I… I can see things.”

“I gotchu, Josh. Jus’ sit here, I’ll make some-”

“No, no, it’s not memories, it’s…  _ Math. _ ”

“Wait- How can you see  _ math? _ ” Jason’s face got more confused by the minute, while Cobblepot didn’t change his expression at all. He looked down bad, and yet - he’s not acting any way out of the usual detached state he had while laying sick. 

“Formulas. I can see things floating around and. And that’s how I got it like this, you know.” Josh pointed at the targets - all three reps landed the bullets in the same spots. Right in between the targets’ cardboard eyes. “Look… I know my eyes are bleeding. It’s happened before. Must be sunlight. Or someshit.”

“No shit they bleedin’, son! You a zombie!” A note of concern could be heard in Colonel Todd’s voice, “Well,  _ yeah you are, me too, _ but I mean y’look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Josh said with a wavy grin. Of course it was ironic. His raspy, cough-filled laugh was a sign of relief for Jason - means he’s feeling fine, even if he doesn’t  _ look _ fine. At all. “Oh. And. I think I’ll go to the bathroom,” he mentioned afterward, since his face was literally covered in blood dripping out of his eyes. Renegade gave him a silent nod, and moved up closer to the paper cutouts to count the hits and misses. 

Holes in the walls were cold - the misses were much older than hits. And the metal on the latter? Very hot. Almost red in color. Recent. Joshua’s silent in the bathroom. Only running water could be heard. No groaning or huffing or swearing. Doubt crawled up Jason’s spine. The door wasn’t locked, so he went to check up on Joshua; he’s still there. Bathroom-adjacent. But he’s also… Dressed differently: 

Old gloves of crimson, half-torn, were back on his ghastly hands. All-black boots and breeches put over the lower part of his body. All Josh had is a burgundy sweater, so he got this on. As well as a bulletproof vest marked with a single vertical strip of red paint. A good batch of belts and sheaths is placed all across the board - at least one pair of hammers hanging from the rear side of his waistbelt. His face is obscured - by a respirator, as well as an abundance of messy eyeliner and the same bloodshot eyes he’s had beforehand. At least those look tired, and not downright sickly. 

“Ay, ay, where d’ya think you’re going?” Jason’s tone shifted to that of a strict and disappointed teacher. His strong palm landed on Joshua’s slouching shoulder, who looked at him with an unimpressed look of his own. 

“We got to beat up some robots. No?”

“ _ Hell naw! _ You was just crying blood a minute ago. Plus - you in hiding. On  _ my _ orders, and  _ my _ turf.”

“I know. But we gotta beat up robots. And save the freaks at Arkham.”

“How’d you-”

“The news.”

“The TV’s off. So is everything else in this deadbeat condo.”

“I heard it over. From the next building.”

“You’re still not going anywhere.”

“Are you? Say it, Boss. Are you going?”

Renegade put his mask back on and sighed through its speakers, as it was laying nearby for quite some time, teasing Joshua’s view in Jason’s stead. Colonel Todd pulled his handgun out and pointed it right at Cobblepot’s forehead: 

“You’re staying. I’m not. These are the rules, Rockhopper.”

“Well then  _ fuck _ your rules, Boss.”

More bloody tears trickled down alongside the wasted eyeshadow. The Rockhopper’s gloved hands reached for the loosely-held pistol and twisted it out of the Renegade’s grip in an instant. Looks like Joshua won this time… If not for the fact the second gun Jason’s got is pressing right up against his junk.

“...I should have expected this.”

“You should have, Birdie. Now gimme back my gun.”

“Sure thing, Boss.”

The Rockhopper had to oblige, and drop down the toughness a notch. Raising both hands, he could see Colonel Todd lower the gun, as well. An awkward silence settled in between them. In the meantime, Josh looked around to see possible escape routes; there were none. 

“Now - I ain’t angry,” Jason said, pointing at Josh and raising both brows, “Cause this was fuckin’ good.”

“Innit?”

“Innit. You’ve been here for a couple days, kid. Maybe a week. And three of those seven days you been layin’ round stuffin’ your face and readin’.”

“So it means I’m going?”

“No. And yes.”

“What the fuck does that mean, then?!”

“You ain’t going… Without protection.”

With that said, the Renegade went back outside, and brought in a half-torn piece of black leather. It had a vague, broken zipper on it, but it doesn’t look like Joshua will need it, anyway. Especially with that vest’s thickness. Cobblepot looked down onto it, and examined it with his hands. Red and black met again. And - when he tried this jacket on - it fit him like a glove. 

“Here. You’ll take this with ya.”

“...Really? A jacket?” Joshua garbled out disappointedly. Jason’s laugh could be heard through the speakers, as well. 

“Well, it’s my old jacket, yeah. But iss got some neat tricks in it. You’ll see.”

“Oh.  _ Oh. _ Well um, you didn’t have to, but thanks anyways,” Cobblepot suddenly got a little flustered and rubbed the back of his head, his eyes continuously trailing down and looking for the “tricks” his mentor mentioned. Colonel Todd’s gear was… Evidently better than his, but Josh didn’t expect any more coming from the rougher end of the stick. 

“Is it. A sense of friendship I’m feeling?”

“Naw man - we ain’t friends. To be honest, I’d rather see you dead - but you’re too useful to kill off right now. Cobblepots are, like, the lesser evil of this ratchet-ass town, so you can have it. Maybe do some good.”

“Alright, uhm… Thanks, again. I won’t fail you-”

“ **No. Showing off.** ” Jason’s finger pointed at Joshua’s chest again, as the “brows” of his cowl visibly furrowed, “Or else I’ll whack you before I whack the rest of these robo-bitches. Now let’s get going - we’ve got a nuthouse to clear out.”

“Sure thing, Boss!  _ Fuck yeah, I’m OUT of here. _ ”

***

_ @Warehouse District, Gotham City: _

The window isn’t the only piece of glass that shattered - it was also Oswald’s glass as he stepped out of the bathroom for a moment. The Bat’s shadow is, once again, in front of him, and the wide, stubble-ridden scowl doesn’t mean anything good for the Cobblepot household’s patriarch. Batman’s slow, thudding steps were muffled down by the mud caking up on his soles. The carpet is ruined, and so is most of the window. As well as his entire office nearby. Oz takes a couple of steps back, but they aren’t nearly enough to keep him out of the Dark Knight’s grip. 

“Heyyy, Bats. I was just thinking of calling you up, but it’s good to-  **Hwek!-** ”

Oswald audibly, demonstratively  _ quacked _ as he’s slammed into the wall, effectively making a good crack or two with both his and the Bat’s weight pressing into it. The spine and the ribs hurt plenty, but a Cobblepot isn’t one to show his weakness. Not when he’s being pressed down by a cocky, angry know-it-all, at least. Oz sighed. He sighed, instead - his breath shaky and unstable, but otherwise normal:

“Ah yes, I should have expected this. You’ve come to talk the  _ talk _ , haven’t you?”

“Another one, Cobblepot?” Batman’s gruff voice made the Penguin shudder again, “Another one from your  _ gaggle _ is making the headlines. Another time. A little less than two  _ weeks _ after Joshua Cobblepot was disposed of.  **Explain yourself, or I’ll bring you in for sedition.** ”

“How the hell am I supposed to- Sedition? Of what?!” Those accusations changed the birdman’s demeanor entirely, “You could technically say it’s more along the lines of “obstruction of justice”... If I  _ was  _ obstructing anything. I don’t interrupt anyone - I’m just trying to run my club. I’m not responsible for my children’s actions - they’re adults now, for fuck’s sake! And, explain  _ yourself, _ Batman - why in the god-damn  _ fffuck _ would I finance those who want to ruin me and the town I live in, as well as my assets? Why?!”

“I’ve the same question, and I can’t figure it out-”

“Well maybe it’s wrong, then? No?!”

“ **Quiet.”** ”

The Bat finally let go of Oswald, letting him drop down onto his sickly feet and groan out in even more agony that came afterward. That dark silhouette’s pacing could possibly be heard through the rooms. Oz didn’t give command yet - he wanted to hear exactly what the Detective has come up with to try and frame him again. 

“Quite possibly, you might do so to either clean up your own name,” Batman’s tone shifted to a more deductive and pacified one, therefore luring Cobblepot into a false sense of relief. “Alternatively - you might utilize your own children to dispose of someone else. Possibly themselves.”

“Do you…” Oswald choked on his words as rage suddenly filled up his chest, “...Do you really think I’m this heartless? Have you not beaten me, humiliated me, jailed me, and destroyed  _ everything I have had  _ for  _ thirty fffucking years? _ Have you not managed to take a second out of your “busy” schedule for the night to study what my real goals were? Still are?”

“Ahh, Ozzy, let ‘im be - he’s always too dumb to not-cheat when dealing with my riddles, anyways.”

It is Nygma’s voice. He’s here. But where did he come from? The Bat probably expected him, too. He’d tell Ed to run, but his arteries are visibly throbbing as he tenses up, ready to tear through Batman’s armor and bite into his flesh with his clunky, uneven  _ teeth. _ And oh - Nygma sure looks different. He’s got the uniform of them  _ old days  _ on: 

Baggy military pants that no longer fit his withered-down legs were draped over most of the lower half - along the well-fit ankle-highs to contrast with that mess. The old, coffee-stained green shirt and the khaki bulletproof vest to match it were also riddled in black and white question marks left with two sharpies, respectively. An olive-green parka also had its fair share of question marks, and so did the charcoal helmet - those marks on it were bright, neon- _ green. _ A cold weather mask was put over Eddie’s handsomely-scruffy face, and clear-frame glasses obscured the rest of the skin visible. Although decked-out in tactical gear, Edward still had his trusty riddle-stick in his hand, as he leaned onto it and smugly stared the gruff Bat down. 

Slowly, but surely, Batman unsheathed an arrangement of tasing batarangs, which were admittedly nearly swayed out of his grip by raging Oswald’s umbrella swings. He gave Nygma a look-over, then a distinct, all-too familiar Bat-squint: 

“What are you doing  _ here? _ ”

“What does it look like?”

“I don’t have time for your  _ games, _ Nygma.”

“First of all, there’s always time for games. Secondly - I got a beer and now I’m heading out to help the investigation.”

“You're not heading out anywh-”

“Ohh,  _ that’s too bad, _ ” The Riddler demonstrated an official invitation from the Commissioner to the displeased and confused vigilante, “Shouldn’t  _ you _ of all the damn capes be there beating  _ my  _ son’s robbits right now? Or is it that you decided to annoy the living shit out of both me and my  _ man _ ‘cause your boomer-brain has a hard time adjusting to new Rogues pop-poppin’ out of nowhere? Now, if you’ll excuse me - get the fuck out of Mr. Cobblepot’s office before you’re dubbed an old man by all the “credible” news sources in this god-damn town.”

The Bat… Had no arguments against this. After receiving such an unexpected, but righteous scolding from a matchingly-old and grumpy, old-time opponent of his, the Bat-squint shifted back to the feral and unhinged Penguin, whose repeated umbrella-swats against his back have resulted in nothing but the rich enameled handle’s weatherement. After another short huff, he swung his cape and yanked the umbrella out of his hand with utmost ease. 

“You two are getting off easy this time. We’ll meet at the entrance, Nygma.”

With that said, the Bat simply… Jumped out of the same broken spot in Oswald’s panoramic window overlooking the Gotham skyline. He’ll have to spend fortunes on this, but it doesn’t matter nearly as much as the insulted ego of his own.    
“Yeah, run,  **run you piece of shit! Fuckin’ oysshteler, if I see you on the street I’ll shank yer ass, even if it will be the last ffffucking thing I’ll do!!!** ”

“ _Oswald, Oswald,_ ” Ed held Oz by the scruff of his shirt’s collar, then let him go once he realized a missed opportunity: “Oh. He didn’t even take me to the Batwing. _What an asshole._ ”

For Oswald Cobblepot, being called a shitty father was one of the worst of insults he could have beared at this very moment. It’s as if everyone thought that his children’s rebellious nature is entirely  _ his fault, _ and of course - it planted seeds of even more self-doubt in his head. After garnering four kids, none of them ended up being of his own. Not only was he denied parenthood, even by his so-called best friend (who is now more of a partner than anybody else), he was also denied family. And, as it looks like, this sad state of affairs isn’t going to end. Ever. All this pressure was put unto Oswald’s shoulders. He is the only Cobblepot left, and although he’s amassed great wealth and disputed glory - what  _ is _ it all for, if not for the future? 

There is, once again, nothing in Edward’s eyes. At any other point, Oz would be pretty pissed off with how blunt he is about things, but now? Looking into the void of cold, rational thinking made  _ him  _ calm down, instead. Ozzy’s hands stopped being shaky, for once, so he took his gloves off, showed Eddie their scarred skin, and wrapped his arms around him. That vest smelled of chips and beer, but it’s fine. It doesn’t look like Oz cares much about his outward appearance any longer. 

“I… Want to go with you.”

“You can’t, Oswald,” Ed said, gently stroking through his hair.

“I know. I’m an…  _ Easy target _ for Ethan right now. But I still want to.”

“I know.”

“You do.”

“Will you turn security on?”

“Max. Most definitely so. Post-haste. Lark’s on it.”

“Good. I expect nothing less of her.”

It’s been a damn long time since they were together like this. Well, the “vacation” doesn’t count. If there ever was a requirement for reinforcements from the Cape - it is now. So while Oswald is dealing with emotional trauma, Eddie’s been…  _ Busy. _ Oz is not informed of this, but there may be a shipping container or two coming their way, just in case Ethan is, indeed, as smart as he expects the boy to be.  _ His boy. Technically. _

Oswald looked up. He is calm and collected, but he is also taking everything in. With Eddie’s gloved hands brushing through the salt-and-pepper mane he has, it seems that… Everything is going to be okay. 

“Let’s… Not kill Enigma. Under any circumstance.”

“You know how cops act, Ozzy. That’s why I want for you to be as safe as possible, and let me handle this. I want to… Owe up, to Ethan. For all the years I’ve neglected him.”

“Well, uhm. I want the same!”

“Now is not the time. We can do that after we stop him and our assets’ constant disappearance.”

The Ridder and the Penguin stopped embracing. It was a long and arduous embrace, however. Edward’s military gear continued to smell foul, but a tad bit of sweet, enticing perfume latched onto it directly from Oswald’s fancy dressage. While Oz took a seat in front of his desk, laden with tiny fractions of glass, Nygma took a step towards the door, but didn’t quite open it yet. His hooded head turned towards Cobblepot, and threw a glance at Ozzy one last time before heading off to talk the  _ talk. _

“Oh - and remember, Oswald: You were a god-damn great father.”


	24. The Solution?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Grand Finale™ of Part 4! Ethan is trying to maintain his grip over Arkham and not get wasted by the entire Batfamily in the first hour, who do the dirty job of cleaning up the place from both robots and escaped inmates. Edward Nygma's trying to talk to his child, but! Oh, shock! It doesn't go all-too-well... Or, does it?

_@Arkham Asylum, Gotham City:_

No one could be safe in such a sad state of affairs. Edward Nygma knew this more than anyone else surrounding him - even Commissioner Gordon and the now fully recovered Detective Bullock. The entirety of Arkham Asylum is surrounded, but nobody here could deal with an army Ethan could send in, according to the Riddler’s own calculations. There _was_ good equipment. Once. But most of it has reached a decrepit state. Ed could see rust form on the barrels of these M4s, and how poorly the armor fit what was, at some point, meant to be Spec-Ops. 

Truly, it _is_ a sad state of affairs, and Gordon’s frown spoke of it the most. 

He didn’t notice as Nygma came right behind him, and loudly cleared his throat. Gordon got startled, and so was Bullock - the two of them nearly dropped their paper cups filled with cheap, bitter-stenched coffee. 

“Jesus!-”

“Ohh Nygma, dat shit will haunt me fer the rest of my _days,_ ” Harvey said, rolling his eyes and taking a grasp at his tie, loosening it thereafter. 

And it’s true - after all, the Riddler’s original concept was a rather creepy adaptation of the Jigsaw Killer… But with riddles. “Make Gotham Smarter,” the slogan always spoke, and Harv, reminiscent of these times, shivered. The Riddler’s a truly terrifying force when he has _influence,_ and since he had it - Bullock didn’t trust neither him, nor anyone who flocked around that lanky green stick figure. 

“I didn’t come here ‘cause you called,” Ed grumbled out in the usual monotone voice, “You pig barn ran out of old favors to call in. I came here so you insects won’t shoot my _offspring_ down, so don’t think much of it.” A glance through opaque lenses later, the Riddler unveiled his riddle-stick and began scanning the environment. “No,” he said, “Not here - there,” a gloved finger pointed at the lackluster line of policemen hidden behind their vehicles. 

Then - Edward pointed at the traffic cameras on the bridge overpassing Arkham Island, as well as the “bushes” that weren’t in front of the entrance. Ed remembered - he was here for longer than he should have been. And, taking that in, the Riddler unwrapped his tablet and wrote his thoughts down: _“If I were you,“I wouldn’t aim for an open offense. Everyone will fucking die, both the hostages and the rest of your troops. But if it goes - it goes. Concentrate forces on the sides, let them have the entrance. They’ll come out and you’ll flank them as soon as he sends them forward. It’s that simple.”_

Bullock, tired and bag-eyed as he is, points at the table with the general plan already written out on it with their usual toxic-blue markers. Oh, Eddie hated those - they smelled of booze and Harv’s donut-stained fingers. Yeah, his desk was usually pretty clean, but god-damn - could he please stop with snatching _his_ pastries?! Whatever. What’s past is past. The plan is exactly how the Riddler laid it out, and this did please his ego. Finally, he _did_ make Gotham smarter! _If Gotham were to consist only of the Commish and Harv and most of the people he knew before going Rogue Ugh._

Even though Harvey is… Mildly-terrified of him, he still considered him his, ah. Less-capable buddy. Same thing with Gordon, though he’s the big boss now, obviously, so he got treated with a little more respect. If “respect” was even a thing Ed caps for cops by this point. Regardless - as a gesture of acquaintanceship, or a genuine plea, he landed his long hands on each of their shoulders and pushed out a deep, pained sigh:

“He’s listening to us. Whatever you do - don’t let yourselves pull the trigger. Not now.”

“Ohh, and who is it I see from my totally-secret cameras you dipshits could have already stomped down?” An exaggerated, whiny voice came from the old alarm speakers, “I see you have fulfilled my request, Commish… Eddie! Dad! Heya. Doesn’t it make you proud, what I did?”

“That you stole my whole shtick and made it worse by making the problem unsolvable? No, Ethan. It doesn’t. Not one bit.”

“ _That’s kinda the point, thank you-_ Annnyway - lemme guess, you’ve come to talk me out of it, mm? Maybe ask for my surrender? Oh, are you going to _beg_ me to save your chums’ lives? I’d love that~”

“Come on, Ethan. I really just want to talk.”

“Alright _fine,_ just stand here for a second! Geez, man, _you old-ass people and your old-ass methods…_ ”

Now it was time for Enigma to catch the bait. Though, Eddie didn’t _enjoy_ being bait in this situation. Especially when the little guppy’s being bratty and sassy with him. Right - he should have smacked the child when he still had the chance and he wouldn’t have applied for cripple-checks. Maybe he hated seeing Ethan like this because he’s a literal reflection of his younger self. Maybe he just didn’t sleep too well. And maybe… What’s this, empathy? Oh no, it cannot be. And maybe he _should_ feel something of the sort. 

He does. But Edward Nygma can’t ruin his image just yet. Not in front of the rebellious child, at least.

A machine, considerably taller than he is, stepped past the iron gates, and through the entrance it examined Edward with its soulless green slits for eyes. Nygma recognizes these parts. Some of them used to be Tetch’s Wayne Enterprises gimmicks, others - possibly stolen from Q-Core, as their logo was on top of some exposed plates, as well. Overall, though? A much better job than he expected of Ethan, considering his resources and pathetic underground lifestyle. _Eddie lived like that for a while, himself, but that’s not the point here._ And the point is, oh, _Ethan is not kidding._

All that armor on top, and his boy managed to still cheap out on the speakers. Ed rolled his eyes at the silent dumb mug, and, once the creature nodded towards him, stepped through the occupied gates, trailing behind all the while. It’s surprising none of Gordon’s imbeciles shot that thing - those tend to break order as soon as they see something remotely non-human. An old tactic always works. Just like in the good old days. Regardless of what Ethan may say right now, comfy in his seat. Judging by the echo and the shitty quality, though? He is, for sure, lounging in Jerry’s office. Eddie could _bet_ on it. 

As the Riddler kept close to the machine, walking with its heavy steps, he could also notice the little slit in the back of its head. What is this - a diskette? No - something more… _Sophisticated._ How could Jervis of all people be behind this? Oh yes, Eddie’s punting not just the child, but the child-sized bastard when he gets his hands on the two of them. Under the right circumstances, he could simply… Snatch it out, but, considering just how many of his useful little assets- _Buddies._ His buddies were in that building, or wherever else they’re trailing down to - it’s best not to risk, especially with such low probability of success.

Inside, Arkham was _barren._ This reminded Eddie of all the abandoned wings he’s managed to hide in whilst still operating as a fugitive. Nowadays, with most of his work being ordered by the pigs, he’s almost _forgotten_ what it felt like. To be in this piss-stained cesspit. Memories, good and bad, lived within these vomit-green walls, with blood and shit-laden floors squelching under his boots’ heavy, padded soles. As per usual, the “canteen” reeked of the sewers and rotting flesh - this time, it was more the latter than the former. Not that it was better, but hey - variety, right? And not a soul in sight, except for those salvaged, yet somehow… _Great_ achievements of third-world robotics. 

Ah yes, the basement! Of course Ethan was down in the god-damn basement, the sewer rat that he’s become. Groans and yelps came through some barred-off cells, though, there was no one too recognizable. Wait. Wait a minute. Oh right - there’s Byron, and Julian, and Barton, and Gaggy… Now this was _spicy!_ As expected of him, Ethan took his anger out on those weaker than him, more meager than him. As he should- Though, in that case, he’d much rather be the hero than the mentor on this god-awful and downright cringeworthy path. 

Thankfully, his mask is still on. Ed doesn’t even mind the corpse-stench. All he can think about is how he used to be just as _insufferable_ as his child. A flammable combo of both his and Ozzy’s worst traits. And there he is, legs on the table, mask off, grinning with a better part of his lip missing, bleeding, making a mess on all the green and turning it into that shitty tone of brown. And right next to him, as expected…

Oswald. 

Grasped down by two of Ethan’s robotic henchmen, he’s gagged, though, evidently sputtering crap at both him and Enigma. There’s a taser next to his thick neck, and it’s already been bruised by the voltage going through it. This was part of the plan, but… It’s still horrifying, as Edward takes his glasses off for the first time in the entire trip here. 

“Grmmf!-”

“Hello again.”

“Hey. What’s all this for?”

“A bit of a setup. We aren’t going to “just talk” as it usually happens, Dad. Something has to be done.”

“That you’re right about. Though, what’s Oswald doing here?”

That last one made Enigma genuinely chuckle. His yellowed-out, uneven teeth that haven’t been brushed in about a week shown wide to the Riddler in a big, disgusting smile: “Oh, Eddie~ I’ve shown you all my creations, all my might, and you _still_ think of me as an absolute buffoon. Look around! I know a lot. Nearly-everything, you could say. I know that you and him live together, I know that you’re soft for one another, _and I know that you aren’t particularly_ _down the straight and narrow, Dad._ I also know _you_ don’t care much for physical or emotional pain, or empathy, all that bullshit. But oh, there are still people you cherish! And this hen’s the one, isn’t he…? Oh yes. Yes, he is~”

That taser’s horrible crackling, as well as the sound of muffled grunts and the smell of burning flesh, made Edward jump up from his seat, only to be put back into it by the two robo-henchmen surrounding him. For the first time in ages, his gaze is wild, as Oswald’s own crossed-out, then half-lidded eyes encourage nothing but to beat the little shit for his miscreancy. Gloved palms clasped themselves together, as the riddle-stick was taken from the Riddler in the most nonchalant way by the same robotic being. 

“Awh, and here I thought you’re gonna say “No!”-”

“No!”

“ _Right,_ that’s the _wrong answer_ , Dad!”

“You’re not even _playing_ a game.”

“Nah, you just don’t understand it well, Eddie - it is a game! Except, the outcome’s already been determined by the game master…”

Another heart-wrenching shock was delivered to the struggling Penguin, the Riddler sitting down to calm himself before Ethan. He did so right on time, as the heavy footsteps stopped and the noises of plastic melting came through the vent. And the appropriate smell of burning plates with it. Ed looked Ethan over once again, while the latter took his hat off to scratch the back of his head. This revealed an important detail - a small card, placed right beneath its black headband. Enigma’s creations stopped carrying out their form of justice once the hat was taken off. 

Hm - Jervis _may_ be a genius manipulator, but all his creations have a critical flaw. Which Eddie’s going to use once he gets a hold of the dropped riddle-stick next to his foot. (Un)Surprisingly enough, Ethan does not notice the stick missing from one of his machines’ grip. He should have waited it out, most likely. Right now, it’s best to simply stretch the time, though - the Enigma might as well do it himself with his sob story: 

“You know, when I found out you are actually my dad, I was uh… A bit _shocked,_ but also disgusted. I just. It’s hard for my mind to come up with a probability you first of all fucked a waitress, secondly - actually managed to put me into her. Mom’s been good, but you know what? You’ve been a big piece of shit by simply not _being_ there, Dad. Not being there for _me._ Oswald’s guilty of lies and corruption, and many wanted to get his hands on him, yeah, but you? You’re a fucking hypocrite! And a soulless, heartless piece of shit who _dumped_ it onto him!”

“Mmgmf-”

“Shut up!”

“I’m…”

“What? What are you gonna say? That you’re sorry?”

Ed leaned forward, still holding the stick beneath himself and not even looking at it, his eyes staring past the tear-laden ones of Ethan’s: “Yes, Ethan. I _am_ sorry. I’m sorry for not having the courage to raise you, for leaving you alone to stir in your own grief with Oswald when you were scorched, ”

“I call bullshit… Time to wrap this up.”

“No-no, you haven’t even finished.”

“The what?” 

“The game!”

“Huh?” Ethan raised his brow. Eddie rolled his eyes, but, nevertheless, didn’t try interrupting him. For once. “That’s… Kind of, what I’m planning to do now. Ozzy’s already down bad, a little shock will make it painless. But hey - that’ll hurt _you_ of all people the most, right?”

“You know… You’ve the same flaws as me, Ethan,” The Riddler’s voice suddenly got low and raspy as the Penguin moaned and tried to inch away from the taser, “There is always _one_ fatal flaw. You cannot fully erase my identity and replace me, without a little riddle.”

The Enigma’s confusion was evident, as his hair-lipped mouth curled in yet another pained, yet painfully-cocky smirk. He’s confident about his victory, but there’s nothing of the sort in his arms. There is nothing, in fact, as he is controlling those dastardly machines. 

“Uh. No. I mean. I can do this right now, but it won’t have the right _flavor._ Ya know. Gotham Fried Businessgoose, and stuff.”

“ _Stop being so edgy, God is dead and I killed him before you could-_ Anyway. You wouldn’t think of it as _fair_ play if you didn’t answer my question as I answered yours, right?”

“You didn’t-”

“I did. And I apologized for it. Dearly. We will make up after this, I promise!”

“How do-”

“Will you listen or not?”

Ethan is visibly ready to give commands, but inside him? Oh. Everything’s stirring up and revolting against even the slightest notion of this idea! Eddie can see through his facade easily - he is his father’s son, after all, and Nygma at least knew himself better than everybody else. That said, the command was called off (much to Oswald’s limping) and the two fists of the Enigma’s planted at the desk.

“Fine. I’ll listen to your stupid riddles.”

“What’s black and yellow and red all over?”

“A peng- Wait, yellow?”

“My stick. What has an answer for every question?”

“You.”

“My stick, Ethan,” Ed caught Ethan trying to look down, and quickly swooped his only weapon in. Just enough to reach that stupid cosplayer hat. “What will always be better than your stupid robots?”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

“Well… Me, I guess? You said you wanted to make amends so it would be very logical for you to try and coerce me into-”

“No, fucker - **it’s my god-damn riddle-stick!** ”

Only then did Ethan realize he fucked up before his dad. And punishment came right for his hat - it was snatched off, obtained by the Riddler, and apprehended by the Penguin thereafter. His fried brain was only capable of getting himself out and then… It broke. The entire card just popped like a tiny firework. Ha! Jervis really is a bit of a dumb one, but so is everyone. At least, he could finally breathe easy… Until the little shit tried going for him and the green eye-lenses of his henchmen turned red. Nothing ever good comes from red lenses - even a buffoon like Ethan knows that, but he still tried to go for Ed in blind, oh-so Cobblepot-like rage. 

“You idiot! Now they’ll kill all of us!” 

A certain _someone_ has come right on time, however: Batman, Man-Bat, and quite possibly Red Hood, dropped down from the rafters. A loud, ear-piercing screech of an EMP made Oswald shut his ears, right as Edward tried to drag him away. The Enigma went the completely opposite direction, letting his creation turn on him, his father, and everyone else. The basement turned into a mess, and so did the rest of the Asylum as the inmates, once again, broke out of their cells. With the situation growing more dire, Gordon could be heard screaming into the speakers: “Send them in! Send ‘em in, dammit!”

Arkham’s gates were bust open. The cops had to kick both the rogue robots and the rogue inmates back inside, in order to apprehend them. The line couldn’t be broken, but there were teeth and pieces of flesh flying all over the place when the self-destruct mode was initiated on a handful of the Q-Core pieces. Right now, everything is in a haze of tear gas, smoke from the rafters, and broken glass. Oz is barefoot - he can’t walk. Ed has to carry him on his shoulders, towards safety - out of this damn basement. The cops are already near, and they’re pelting these dumb creations of Enigma’s with lead again - it’s the best thing these numbnuts are capable of, anyway. 

Eddie dragged Ozzy out of the basement, too exhausted to put up a big fight by now. His hands are shaking, and a shard of glass is possibly stuck right next to his ankle, but how can one care for this when there’s this big metal _bitch_ aiming at a man? _His_ man? Set at a distance, the robot could only focus on one target after being shot down a dozen times in the hassle. Its nimble, yet heavy fists were raised right over Oswald’s chest - Ed ran back and climbed onto it, chewing Tetch’s card out with his very teeth. And with that done, he tripped over and landed on his shoulder, the helmet falling off his head to reveal more of that sleek ginger mess. 

Gordon rushed in, and, soon enough - Eddie could feel himself getting dragged by Oswald, instead. The world became a blur. There’s so much drama going on - over pretty much nothing. All the bots have been dismantled in less-than three minutes, Enigma’s entire operation - in less-than twenty. With Batman’s assistance, of course. There’s a certain someone - a tall, brutish blond, posing in front of the building alongside a lanky fellow with white hair. Something… Strange. Ed possibly won’t remember. But there are tons of pictures being taken right now, and Ozzy rushed away. Nygma hit the ground hard, and, with the meds coming over to put him onto the rack, he could only see the clouded, brown, illuminated sky. 

“...Oh for fuck’s sake, it’s raining again!”

Ethan’s swift pace got him into one of the abandoned wings. It was best to hide from both the cops and the failed creations. His steps were loud and slapped against the puddles of blood, and stumbled against the bodies of random dead inmates, the little of them that were there. Some of them were left ages ago in this abandoned wing - no one would care to retrieve it from these cesspits, anyway. And nobody knew what lurked in those pits of hell, either. After all, Jason Todd wasn’t found here for a whole year while being kept captive… 

There were steps behind him, so he only sped up all the further. His lungs began collapsing after the first thirty seconds of sprinting. And then - his feet collapsed under themselves, as well. Heaving and crawling, the Enigma tried to unsheathe a riddle-stick of his own, but it was roughly swayed away by… A hammer. A figure dressed solely in black and red, with bright-crimson lenses and bleeding crimson eyes, loomed over him. Ethan might be hallucinating, but if it is, indeed, who he thinks he is - he should not expect any mercy. 

...And yet, as he closed his eyes, all he heard were zipties closing shut around his wrists. With that, the horrifying figure takes his shades off, looks him over, and opens his eyes, forcefully staring into them with his own bloodied ones. Ethan recognized him. It is, indeed, Joshua Cobblepot. But who would believe him? Collapsed, restrained, in an insane asylum? No, no, no… Perhaps it is a fate worse than death - to be, once again, abandoned by everyone. While the Enigma processes all this in his head, the Enigma is no more. The side of his head received a harsh blow, which would be concluded as a concussion later. But now, he is being dragged towards the Renegade at the entrance, silently, and he is to be processed. He is to be left in the same place. In the same status quo. Betrayed by everyone by betraying everyone. 

Ethan woke up in an ambulance. Bright collagen lighting replaced the darkness and the orange of the street lights above the abandoned roof. A fresh would, cutting right down to his bone, appeared on the side of his head and trailed all the way down to the cheek. His healthy eye couldn't see much, in fact - the _unhealthy monocled_ eye saw better now. The Rockhopper has taken his dues, it looks like. As vengeance for what Blacksun did to his army and him. It didn't hurt, though. The meds hit him hard the second he woke up, so the haze was also met with a terrible cold Ethan could feel in his toe tips and hands. 

A Nygma’s got a Nygma sticking close to him, almost as scarred as he. Dad’s got his teeth half-broken because of the exploding card. Why would he put it out with his teeth? Ethan had no idea. But he’s scared. Terrified. Confused. Side-eyeing Edward at first, he let a tear out of the monocled eye- Wait. He’s missing his monocle. Ahh screw it - he’s crying both because of emotional release, but he can blame it on the trauma. Eddie’s hand reached out for Ethan’s. Their arms couldn’t move much, because of both bruises and handcuffs, but their fingertips could at least reach one another. Eddie smiled, and so did Ethan. Was it… Really the empathy they’re supposed to be feeling?

“Dad…”

“Yes, son?”

“I screwed up. Again.”

“You have. And you’ll face reprimands.”

“I’m… Scared.”

“Don’t be. The worst they’ll do is put you into isolation again. They did the same thing to me.”

“Can you um. Can you tell me everything’s gonna be okay?”

“Everything will be okay, son. Don’t worry ‘bout a thing - they’ll put you out as a loon, anyway.”

“Well… There’s something… I…”

“Come on, Ethan. Speak your truth. Ozzy’s here, too.”

“He is? Oh. Oh well I… Uhm…

_I love you, Dad._ ”

“ _I love you too, son. I really, really do. You made me proud, no matter how uh. Shitty your robots are._ ”

“ _Thanks. I um. Yeah. This is awkward._ ”

“Well then, let’s rest up. You should, especially - the court day’s tomorrow.”

“I. Yeah. I agree. I haven’t slept for- Ah, whatever. _Goodnight, Dad._ ”

  
“ _Goodnight, Son._ ”


	25. Old Allies, New Friendships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for reconciliation! Maybe. First of all, the events of Ethan's Assault on Arkham are expressed through Emperor Penguin's point of view, and his presence there is for all the reasons one could expect for him to have. Then, the Rockhopper's next mission is to start capturing the Arkham escapees! And even though the first mission fails, it... Technically doesn't? It's very confusing to Joshua, for the most part - but when is he not confused, really? Finally - Edward's recovering in the hospital, gets a sentimental gift from Detective Bullock, and shares an even more sentimental conversation with Oswald, who comes over to drag him out of the hospital. Sentiments! Sentiments everywhere, and Ed isn't too sure he likes it, but he's also not sure he doesn't.

_ @Arkham Asylum, Gotham City: _

Ding! The elevator sang - and the Empyrean’s back entrance has, once again, been unveiled before the Emperor Penguin and his new crew. Pyg fell out of the cabin, first and foremost, with Flamingo, Theodore, and Ogilvy with Dr. Strange’s weight taking a good footful of steps on his blubbery back. The haste was understandable, so Laszlo quickly rose from his predicament and fixed his half-broken nose. It couldn’t even stand properly without a nose hook any longer. The Bunny got grossed out, but Pyg could only offer an awkward smile of a starving artist in response. After a second-long staredown, the crew moved forward. Towards the office, most likely, as was according to Iggy’s plan. If he even  _ had  _ one in such a tiresome state. And inside his office, there was… 

Martin. Right in the main seat. Guarded by at least ten well-armed and well-armored bodyguards, which wore hockey jerseys for some stupid reason. The youngest among Cobblepot heirs rose up and put a finger up to his soft, smooth lips. His finger pointed at Arnold Wesker, who sat in the armchair and had a heated conversation with… Whatever his mind made out of a  _ sock. _ Naturally, with Marty out of his seat, Ignatius chose to settle there, first. He didn’t push the boy aside, no - instead, he left a heavy hand on his shoulder and then collapsed right into soft, and surprisingly-breathable,  _ cold _ leather. 

Soon enough, Ignatius and Laszlo and Eduardo and everyone else in the room besides Martin found out they were being surrounded by these guardsmen. Their rifles were in good condition, new, stacked with NATO armament. Hm. Quite possibly Heckler and Koch, some new iteration of a G36, most likely. Marty’s been busy putting his funds to use, as Iggy has come to expect of that short and tubby, but very capable young man. “Am I no longer welcome in my own home?” Ogilvy asked, furrowing his brows at Martin, specifically. He remained near the Emperor Penguin, in spite of the obvious threat. His gestures were translated by one of the guards, in his calm, yet menacing voice: 

“You  _ are  _ welcome. We simply do not know whether you are hostile towards Mr. Vickers or not.”

“Well, do I  _ look  _ hostile?”

“Frankly-speaking? Yes. Yes you do, sir. Mr. Vickers says he’s afraid you’ll transform again.”

“I have… Medication on me.” 

“Demonstrate it. Please. If you can.”

Martin was going to get quite the scolding after such a stunt, but - Ignatius did show his pack of meds, thus giving the guardsmen a reason to lower their weapons and lower their heads in a gesture of regret… Alongside the tiny bird. Arnold, in the meantime, was still distracted and floating around in his own little world - best leave him in peace. Otherwise, his stammers will be unending. Pyg wanted to check up on him, but Flamingo stopped him with a palm roughly laid across Dr. Valentin’s wide and sturdy shoulder. Ogilvy was  _ not _ pleased with this arrangement, so he sat there, in silence, planning, his stream of consciousness written out on his pallid, tired face. 

“Martin - be a dear and turn the TV on.  _ Please. _ ”

Right now, live coverage was crucial to figuring out what exactly is going on. Downtown Gotham is extremely unstable - Ogilvy could hear rioters going through the street right below them, smashing windows and chanting slurs against Batman. A disgusting display of human desperation. Though, this was a key advantage right now. No matter the consequences, the Empyrean was secure. There were no sirens around them. They’ve lost the cops, at last. Most of them were gathered around Arkham, anyway. Wait - what the hell’s the situation there, again? Good thing Vicki Vale just started her report. How quaint and convenient: 

“We at GCCTV wish you a very safe and very calm evening, Gotham, this is Vicki Vale, coming in fresh with a report on the situation at Arkham,” Vicki spat her words out like a machine gun, visibly worried, as footage of the Arkham Assault was shown on the screen, overlapping her speech thereafter: “It has now been confirmed that Ethan Cobblepot, nee Nygma, has captured Arkham Asylum and holds both the staff and the inmates hostage.  _ Together. _ One can only imagine what horrors are happening inside, we will try to get a closer look once Commissioner Gordon removes the thirty-foot barrier between us and their workspace. The situation is currently in development, and… 

Oh.  _ Oh. _ It’s now come to our attention that Oswald Cobblepot, the Iceberg Lounge’s infamous owner, has been reported missing.  _ Zoom in, zoom in!- _ He is being shown to the press through a window! Ethan Cobblepot holds his adoptive father hostage, as well! Right now, the situation is still in development, as it is rumored that both the Riddler  _ and  _ Batman are going to arrive at the scene sometime soon. More on that after the weather report.”

Ignatius shut the TV down, himself. With his crew surrounding him, the Emperor Penguin maintained the same expression… Except, there was a smug smirk crawling up the left corner of his lips. Martin saw the sad state of affairs Iggy and others were in, so he ordered his men to bring them a towel, while keeping Arnold away from the action. 

“They’re looking for you,” the translator said, “What is your plan of action, then?” 

Ogilvy did not speak up until much, much later. He took a long, heavy look at everyone: 

Arnold continued to work on the remains of someone very,  _ very _ special to him. His lips are moving, but he’s not talking - in fact, he’s not making any noise at all, as his big, round fingers tenderly work over olden wood, polish it, and replace the broken parts with new ones. Special attention was directed to paint and lacquer - one has to be especially careful to keep the wood breathing well enough, even as it’s being covered in a distinct, shiny layer, one after the other. The smell of paint also brought anxiety down, as its noxious fumes were inhaled by Pyg, who rested right next to the working Ventriloquist and admired his art with an elated expression. 

Then there’s Eduardo. Chewing on what appears to be beef jerky. Thankfully, it  _ was _ beef jerky, since Iggy knows Flamingo from Arkham, and he tends to bite the flesh of many inmates. Always hungry, yet always skinny. How quaint. Flamingos’ tongues make for a delicious snack - no wonder someone trimmed the poor fellow’s tongue so short. Ogilvy never delved into his story. Not that it mattered, in the current circumstances. The White Rabbit was a complete underdog to him - fellow looked foppish enough to be a real princess on the stage, but gritty enough to kick the onlookers’ teeth out, especially considering how big the ones of his own were. A lithe albino with buck-teeth… The name sure fits. Much better than that whore Tetch employed and then dumped off, just how he usually does when he grows bored of his “Alices.”

And finally - there’s Martin, with his armed guards and a stone-cold Scandinavian face, writing something down in his tiny notebook - always writing or sketching or doodling something, anything that comes through his bright little noggin. The little blue penguinling earned a bright, fanged smile. 

“Mr. Ogilvy? Sir?” Came from the translator. Iggy already got the message - he missed Marty’s swiftly moving hands and his distinguished russet-brown eyes staring him down, never quite blinking properly. The Emperor Penguin adjusted in his seat, and cleared his throat: 

“Gentlemen - I believe it is time for us to obtain our  _ pardons. _ ”

After literal minutes of rest, Ignatius took his assistants back onto a wild ride. This time -  _ he  _ drove the car. Thankfully, most of them managed to change into a more fitting wardrobe… Or not. Considering those were Iggy’s dress shirts and spare pants, and Iggy himself is massive, most of them were ill-fitting. But, to be fair - anything’s better than Arkham scrubs that are itchier than old Christmas sweaters. Traffic at Downtown was horrible, as per usual, but none of them had time for that - pavement is the way! With pedestrians jumping away and spewing curses at the packed-up sedan, the Emperor’s Court arrived at Arkham swiftly… In secret. 

There should be a distinct moment in between Batman’s arrival and their retrieval. The plan was discussed minutes ago, but it should work out relatively well - for rescuing Dr. Arkham won’t be that big of a deal. Ethan cares more for his games and riddles than he does for captives, anyway. Otherwise, he’d hire actual henchmen. According to Ignatius’s vision, and thus far - there were no reasons to distrust him. For any member of the team, in fact. Iggy’s grunts were… Concerning, but Pyg only looked excited as his skin turned blue and bark-like once again: Emperor Penguin is turning back into a Man-Bat. 

“Mm-so - we’ve returned, at last!” Laszlo proclaimed and posed, “How are we going to get Jerry out of here, Monsieur Ogilvy?” 

“We crawl,” Iggy responded in a deeper, raspier tone. His eyes, crimson again, overlooked the circus outpouring from the stolen Prius. “Most of you are too heavy… Alas. Oh. Hey, Theodore!” His hand reached for the lanky buck-toothed twit. He came out of the car last. “You’ll be my partner for the solo mission.”

“Partner? Huh?” The Bunny’s confused, but it breaks down as soon as Ignatius forces his arms around his neck. “Latch on tight,” he said, and began running on all-fours akin to an actual feral beast. The White Rabbit barely held a squeak back. 

It only got worse as Ogilvy began crawling up the wall. A wall of Arkham Asylum, for crying out loud! Bricks are falling off of it and he’s digging into the little passages with his long, sturdy claws. Everyone who’s been to Arkham knows where Jerry’s office is - right in that big old tower that imposes itself over the inner courtyard - whatever’s left of it, anyway. That said, Ignatius got the right grip, so it felt safe. Somewhat safe. 

The windows were shut, but their bars were easily gnawed through by Iggy’s razor-sharp fangs. Those were really easy to bust open - because of how rusty and decrepit said “safe” windows were. No wonder Arkham has such a high escape rate. Nothing works here! And, upon crawling into Dr. Arkham’s office, they could see both him lying unconscious, and of course - someone else has been waiting for them, already. Thankfully, it wasn’t a robot! It was someone, something much, much worse than one could expect. 

Of course, Dr. Bolton is the one guarding Jerry’s office. 

Theodore hopped off Iggy’s back and tried to look for any piece of tech that could explode upon overload. Both the Man-Bat in question and Lockdown got into a stance, the batons of hers crackling with electricity, blue light all-too distracting for Iggy’s light-sensitive eyes. With that said, the White Rabbit moved right in and dismantled them by yanking his fist back, therefore causing the lightning to turn pink and shut down entirely. Though, it appears that bitch has a second taser, and effectively dismantles Ignatius without having to fight his whole hulking mass. Theo knows he’s next in line, so he uses Jerry’s body to protect himself. Alas - Linda’s heel digs into his throat as soon as he makes a run for it. 

“Waitwaitwait **wait!-** ” Theodore squeaked, only for the heel of Linda’s to dig into his throat all the harder. 

“Be quiet,” she hissed, “You’re being recorded right now. Why the hell did you come back? To see me?”

“ _ Ghk- _ yeah, y’wish!” The Bunny’s smirk returned, “Lissen, if y’can,  _ please  _ step off of me. I need ah-”

“To call in a favor?” Linda took her mask off and stomped down on Ogilvy’s back, instead. 

Theodore’s pink eyes traveled down to stare at the unconscious and thoroughly-restrained Dr. Arkham: “Well… Yeah.”

Lockdown’s squint was thorough, but it’s also quite obvious she’s too tired to deal with the two of them. The White Rabbit’s prepared to be beaten up and-or tased by her again, but… She  _ does _ listen to him. Plus, why shouldn’t she? The situation looks dire, and Batman didn’t even come yet. Linda’s foot stepped off of Theodore’s throat, causing him to retch and gag for a good while, as Ogilvy started coming back to his senses. 

“I helped  _ him _ only because I wanted to carry out your punishment,” she said, “All of you deserve every bad thing that’s happening to you after you’ve decided to put on the mask.”

“Aren’t you-”

“Yes. I chose to become one of you, in order to understand your  _ psyche. _ The so-called officials divide you into two sides, dramatize and romanticize what you fuckers do… All those “Rogues” and “Vigilantes”... There are no sides to it. Everyone’s a criminal. My uncle didn’t die for this shit to go on.”

“Uh-awkay,” Theodore jumped back onto his feet. Oh boy. Yup, that looks bad - Iggy’s starting to turn human again and he won’t be able to carry  _ two  _ limp sacks of garbage, one of them being the driver, back to the car in the bushes. Confused, the White Rabbit’s senses twisted the heads off the guardsmen that were approaching the office door. 

“What… The hell is your point, then?”

“ _ That was impressive. _ ”

“ _ Yeah thanks- _ Still, what the fuck  _ do  _ you want, Doc?”

“True justice. I know it sounds downright stupid and idealistic, but… Capital punishment. Universal capital punishment. Yeah. That fits better.”

“What caused such a- Wait nevermind, you were always a frigid bitch~”

“ _ Thanks, _ Eagleton. I thought Nygma’s about that, as well, but apparently all he wants is silence his daddy issues.  _ Again. _ ”

“Then go!”

“Where to?”

That… Made Theodore stammer again. His bare feet and oversized shirt looked funny, especially when covered by dark stains from Ignatius’s charcoal-like skin. There was no right answer to this question, though, Theo thought up a thing or two, already. Got to call in favors, first, however. 

“So uh… Arkham’s ours?”

“Yup. All yours. A favor’s a favor.”

“Then lemme help ya!”

“How?”

“Look, I know an ex that knows a chick,” Theodore moved in a little closer as his tone was lowered down, “Her name’s Artemis, Arty, heard of her? Goes by  _ Tigress. _ My ex and her used to be buddy-buddy but also kinda rivals but also buddy-buddy again when he tried to do an insurrection here, to do the same ole’ thing your bitchboy Ethan’s trying to do right now. You have got to find  _ her, _ put your military training to use an’ whatnot, then you can go anywhere you want! Away from here.”

“Why would I want to escape,” Linda turned out to be just as confused as Theodore, whilst still pinning Ogilvy down with the sock of her boot. 

“Because! Batman’s going to come on over and put you in with the very criminals you hate~”

“I’m capable of putting him down.”

“For a time? Yes. Forever? Nawh. I refuse to believe this, stats show otherwise.” 

“Well… You’re right about that.” Indeed Theodore is! Batman’s got much more experience, and, although Dr. Bolton went through three years of military service before getting into psychiatry, her expertise wouldn’t be enough to dismantle a “criminal” as big as the Dark Knight. Her “encouraging” pat on the Bunny’s shoulder suggested he should get the fuck out, and the judgmental glare confirmed this theory. Theodore obliged. 

And so did Ignatius. Grasping the back of his head, he got back onto his feet shakily, leaning onto Theodore and effectively causing him to fold over almost instantly. 

“Woah!-”

“Where?” Iggy grumbled, examining his normal hands with normal eyes and a normal voice. Theodore pointed back, to the open window:

“Oh you kinda fought with that crazy bitch over there but- Aaaaand she’s gone.”

“Did you…? Oh. Well, no. Of course. Is Arkham with you?”

A sage nod was given, and the tape was undone as soon as Dr. Arkham was shaken up by a couple of bitchslaps from the White Rabbit’s cold and lanky hands. 

“Oh wake  _ up,  _ you fuckin’ sissy, we still have a photo-op to pull off!”

Here they stood. Jerry looks absolutely terrified, yet he’s smiling. Silently. Which is good for him, considering Ignatius did most of the talking. “We thank you for your attention and diligent service,” Ogilvy addressed the audience of cops and journalists, “It is true that we have  _ escaped _ our conditions, but I can be a willing witness to multiple allegations of inmate abuse and illegal experimentation performed on myself, and a handful of my compatriots. These experiments were performed by Dr. Hugo Strange, Dr. Linda Bolton, and the still incarcerated Dr. Byron Maredith. All three are currently missing, and, in accordance to our deed today, we have been  _ pardoned  _ by the Gotham Board of Health.” 

Emperor Penguin demonstrated a crumpled-up piece of paper, shakily signed by Jeremiah Arkham seconds before appearing in public. Naturally, it didn’t look too convincing, but after both the fascinated Vicki Vale and the exhausted Harvey Bullock came closer to examine it, Dr. Arkham, therefore, confirmed he signed those. There will be a long talk between him and Batman tonight, quite possibly tomorrow. Theodore almost felt sorry for this oaf in a labcoat, but then he also remembered that Dr. Arkham  _ sanctioned  _ Linda’s methods. Perhaps he’ll come to regret that he's helped her in the future, but for now? Ignatius provides all the safety he could desire. 

Senses finally started coming back to Theodore after he’s faced his fears tonight. Linda’s a terrifying person, but outside of her authority within? She’s just as much of a loon as all of them are. Everyone surrounding him, and himself. The sky turned pink with sunrise approaching, and the sewer-stench returned to Gothamite air. Nature’s healing, so to speak. And so are the culprits of today’s shitshow - the Riddler, the Enigma, and the Penguin, lounging about and patching up their wounds- Oh, look! They’re holding hands. Oh yes - he should totally visit that Riddle-kid when he’ll be locked up. Batman, Batgirl, Red Hood, Spoiler - a lot of the Batfam came over, too! So many robot carcasses laying around… If only he could reanimate them. 

Theodore took a deep breath in. There was a familiar presence, somewhere, in the corner of his eye. Red lenses spying on him. Ah. It all must be paranoia, as the raindrops take his mind away from the worries of tonight, and therefore - bring the White Rabbit out of his hole, into the cold and frigid tomorrow of working for yet another one of Cobblepot’s pseudo-children.

***

_ @Otisburg, Gotham City: _

Running, wheezing, panting. Then panting, wheezing, and running again. Although full of rage that kept moving his husk of a body across the dimly-lit rooftops, Joshua Cobblepot still wasn’t, and will not be, nearly as fit as his mentor purposefully trailing behind him. In fact, he’s on the other side of the street, so why would he bother? While Josh ran, Jason strolled, and occasionally checked his six in order for the angry chick’s mission to be successful. Thus far? He’s doing good, but probably not for long. The white lenses of Jason’s helmet squint in an attempt to see even a smidgen of red. They cannot, so the heat visor’s showing a speck of warmth travelling across quite dark and narrow corners, chasing a notorious and dangerous target: Dr. Byron Merideth, also known collectively as the Merrymaker. 

There was nowhere else to go. Pinned down in the corner, the shriveled and pathetic man, all-too lithe to be alive, hunched himself down and knelt before an old wooden fence, riddled with both question marks and antiquated Cobblepot campaign posters. Josh couldn’t quite see his head, as a whole, as the one he presumed to be his target prostrated himself before a strange symbol carved into the bottom part of said fence: A man standing in a circle, with said circle being the center of a bird of sorts, its wings spread out wide and proud. Merideth kept… Muttering something, but the Rockhopper paid no attention to it. 

Cobblepot jumped down as quietly as he possibly could. He best not fuck this up - otherwise he’ll probably get a scolding at best and a beating at worst when they get back to the base. With zipties in one hand and a hammer in the other, Joshua stepped up closer, with his boots squelching against the puddle and filth that coated the asphalt in a one-way inlet of a street. 

“Alright, Merrymaker. They call you Merrymaker, right?” Josh’s raspy voice was modified further by the masque’s speakers, “Get up, mate, we’ve places tae be. The meds will make you merry, or whatever. Come on, I ain’t no babysitter - get up, or I’ll bust your fucking kneecaps open and drag you there.”

“ _ Tahari rukh… T-Tahari rukh… _ ”

“ _ It means ‘cleanse thy soul’, O Uncultured One, _ ” The voice that came from the hooded head spoke in an even deeper and raspier tone than the Rockhopper’s, and the hood itself, contrary to the information given, appeared to be brown - not cinnabar. 

“Listen - I  _ really  _ don’t have time for your bullshit. Last warning - get up, and I will-”

“ _ You will  _ **_what,_ ** _ little bird? Break mine bones? Perhaps mine skull, even? There is narry you can do to mine flesh that might grant me an  _ **_iota_ ** _ of fear... _ ”

Visibly annoyed, Joshua’s eyes started ‘bleeding’ again, calling unto his senses to unsheathe a gun from the holster and simply end the old coot. Furrowing his brows, the Rockhopper shoved the barrel up against the back of the stranger’s head: “Oh yeah? I’ve seen tons of shit before, you old fart - I’ll just crack your skull like a fucking coconut and be done with it. You ain’t special. So tell me, bastard - why do ya think that?”

“ _ Because... _ ” The ‘claws’ that were on someone that’s clearly not Dr. Merideth scratched against the asphalt’s grainy surface, and muffled out the rest of his whispers. These ‘claws’ were actually needles, with some kinds of wires attached to them. Then, as the ‘Merrymaker’ rose to his full height, he turned out to be much, much taller than the Rockhopper. Byron’s skin is supposed to be bruised and pallid - his was a distinct olive, with bruises on the ribs and plenty of scars on the bare back. The lenses turned out to be a bright yellow, and, although their masks were similar - the ‘beak’ of his was open, connected merely by a couple of threads. Josh finally realized who it was, and aimed right at the Scarecrow’s head. The latter loomed over him, and popped a bone or two in his spinal cord:

“ _ Because, boy - I _ **_am_ ** _ fear! _ ”

Josh barely managed to put two bullets out. As chaotic and rushing as his brain was, it’s a relatively good result! Not nearly good enough to prevent the needles jamming into the lower right side of his neck, however. The Scarecrow’s visibly bleeding, through both ear and collarbones, raspily breathing and dissipating in Joshua’s blood-laden eyesight as the fear toxin rushes through the bloodstream. Cobblepot threw both his glasses and his respirator off, taking in deep, shaky breaths whilst his eyes turned from crimson to noxious-green. 

Nothing unusual - an average nightmare. There he is - that smug, blond bastard. Enjoying the begging of his own, as well as his screams and wails and pain as a whole, taking it in and savoring it like fine dining. The voice of his echoes across the torture chamber: “It’s  _ Count _ Vertigo to you, peasant,” the deep voice speaks down to him in a thick Slavic accent. Then the pain - the phantom pain kicks in. It’s as if… A sense of smell is coming back to him. But then again, all his nose  _ can  _ smell is the sweet and metallic stench of blood gushing down the now much more elongated and open nostrils. There  _ is  _ no nose - only a deep, fleshy  _ hole  _ covered up by a piece of metal. 

Josh knew all-too well what he must do when poisoned. Since his mouth can’t reach the four tiny holes in the neck, his gloved hand dives deep down his throat, fingers hitting the back wall of it repeatedly. Shakily standing on all-fours, his bowels were emptied. Nothing but some gall and green ‘fluid’ came out of him. He did it again, as the vision seemed to loom over him more and more menacingly. Nothing happened to the Rockhopper, much to his surprise. And, since the hallucination was still there, his senses were dulled. as a whole. He did it again. And again. And then again, for the fourth time, forming a puddle of weird, toxic barf beneath himself, until there was simply not enough strength to support him and he collapsed into said puddle, once again falling into a deep and dark unconsciousness. 

Waking up was the least pleasant process about passing out. A migraine across the entirety of Joshua’s head caused him to roll off the couch with a loud thud and moan thereafter. Yup - he’s down  _ bad. _ And although his rise back to the world of the living was loud and demonstrative, no one seemed to pay any mind to his excesses. The ‘no one’ being Jason Todd and Jonathan Crane, having a casual conversation beside him while the latter gets patched up by the former. 

“Once again, I’d like to apologize for interrupting your prayer,” Jason spoke in a sincere and surprisingly-warm tone, “My student is young and brash, Dr. Crane. As I used to be, in essence.”

The Scarecrow looked… Much less threatening than he was beforehand. And his voice no longer sounded nearly as raspy or disgustingly-gargling: “I will be all-right, Colonel Todd. Flesh  _ heals  _ \- I’m not one to tell you that. Though, I will need some incense to please my Lord. As well as kidneys. Preferably fresh. Oh! Look. He’s risen back from his crypt, hasn’t he?”

The two of them stepped up closer to the couch, and the carpet beside it on which Josh now rested. Jonathan’s hands were quick to grasp and start examining him - said hands were roughly swatted away as he did so. With Cobblepot’s vision clearing up, a visage of a rather thin, yet well-built man appears before him. The shoulder of his is bandaged, and there seems to be a fair bit of blood coating it. In contrast to a black mane of wavy, messy hair, as well as a rare and thin beard, his eyes were quite expressive and glowing with their hazel color. There was madness there. But not only madness - there is also quite a lot of… Interest. And reassurance, which is confirmed by a little smile in response to the protests. 

“What the fuhhh- You’re working together now?” Josh spoke with both the tone and expression of utter confusion.

“There is no reason not to,” Jason replied, and Scarecrow continued after a silent interruption: “I have long since renounced my ways of purification against every soul. Not everyone deserves to be treated in the way I usually did. Ergo - I’m technically  _ good, _ now. In your sense of understanding. As in, I hunt down those with plenty of sins, in order to punish and purify them… And possibly harvest more materials necessary in order for me to continue doing my job.”

Joshua Cobblepot finally rose up, settled back down on the couch, popped his shoulder back into its hinges after a rough landing, and took a deep breath in: “I have not understood anything what you have just said, but I still finding really fucking suspicious and I do hope I’ve received an antidote.”

“You have,” Renegade’s voice has gotten stricter, as he settled close to Josh, “And what you’re hearing is true. Dr. Crane is an old enemy-turned ally. It is best you apologize for-”

“No need,” Crane said, “Right now, young Joshua needs rest. It is accepted in advance, for my Lord has forgiven him, already.”

With that said, the Scarecrow took his leave with an elated face. Ugh. Josh couldn’t stand it. Still confused as all hell, he looked to the side and shrugged at Jason. “Don’t mind him,” he said, “He might be a little strange, still, but at least he doesn’t, you know…  _ Poison the city. _ ”

“We’ll see about that,” Josh huffed through gritted teeth, “He’s going to help us with Arkham or what?”

“Yeah. He will.”

“Then I will trust your judgment. And uh… Sorry for fucking up.”

“You didn’t - I haven’t seen Jon in a damn long while. You brought us together again.”

“Alright then… Yay? I guess?”

Joshua grinned at Jason, and received a warm pat in return. When he’s not being a pretentious asshole, he might as well be tolerable. No wonder Batman chose him as the second Robin. He, too, rose up, and chose to let Josh rest, allowing him to lay still and heal up for as long as he needed to. How kind of the person who literally broke his ankle  _ again  _ two weeks ago. The Renegade looked back at the Rockhopper before taking his leave, however:

“Remember - you’re here because you’ve managed to outwit everybody else around you, in spite of all odds. An enemy of an enemy is your friend, and - I’ll need you for later.”

“For what?”

“For hunting someone called Tigress down.”

***

_ @Gotham General Hospital, Gotham City: _

“Dammit, can’t they just let special people wear their special and comfortable clothes?” Edward’s annoyed tone could be heard on the street through the hospital window. He’s just woken up, and already started detaching himself from all the apparatuses the shrinks have connected him to while was out. The nurse ran over and roughly pushed him back, causing for him to groan and roll his eyes from a loud and concerning spine-pop.

“Oh geez, Mr. Nygma, are you alright?” She asked, her eyes flicking from one monitor to the other. 

“I’d be more alright if you-”

“Ah, he’s alright. You must remain in bed until further notice from the administrators.” 

“Drag your admin’s ass over here, then! I’m peachy, see?” Nygma tried to get up again, but felt his liver act up and pushed himself back down with a frustrated purse of his lower lip. A hospital wasn’t a good place to be in for a man like him - especially a public one. There’s surveillance all over the place and the wi-fi’s shittier than it is in Dollmaker’s cabin. 

At least the painkillers kicked in nice and easy. They’re very mild, so Ed can still feel slight discomfort in both his jaws and the head, but it’s no bigger than the migraines one gets after a long time of screen-staring. His eyes of bright-green trailed over to the counter, and the many presents that were given there. “Hey uhh, can you hand those over?” He asked the nurse who reattached the vials and catheters to his body. She silently handed him the letters and the fruits. Ah yes - green apples. His favorite sort! Those must be from Gordon, he usually cheaps out on those and opts for the booze. 

Much like Bullock. Though, Harv surprised him with his gift this time; his gift was Edward’s old mugshot - in fact, his first. All the way back when he snapped and became the unhinged version of himself little known nowadays. The second photo was the GCPD. Here he is - standing in between Harv and the late Montoya. Though, her body was never found, and the circumstances are very suspicious- Nevermind. It clearly posed a great sense of value to Bullock. Maybe that’s why there are a couple of wishy-washy scrabbles at the back of theirs. They read: “Thank you” and “Sorry for everything (but not really, you know you deserved that kick to the face).” How charming. No, really. Ed’s gonna keep it - as a display of Harvey’s softer side to remember when he tries to stomp him down again, some other time. 

Not today, though - definitely not today, when he is, apparently, Gotham’s unsung hero. 

Edward stuffed the photos into his scrubs- no, those would have to be his trunks. Dammit. Nothing was  _ his  _ in this environment besides the gifts and he hated it. He hated being exposed like that to random strangers that were peeping at him as if he’s a circus animal. The Riddler’s a scary person to have in a place populated with old farts and the incapacitated! Well, at least it used to be. Now everyone’s just looking… Weirdly at him. And to be fair, Eddie doesn’t know what’s the better option in that case. 

Oswald’s arrival stopped his train of thought. Here he is, as the nurse silently leaves. Standing in the doorway in an oversized fur coat that almost reaches the ground, looking like an absolute preppy dork, as per usual. Truly a sight for sore eyes, even though the eyes were mostly sore from the amount of black, white, and purple put over a short and stocky frame of his. That said - Ozzy grinned at him. He grinned wide. Finally, someone actually happy to see him, and someone the rag-tag admins allowed through the crowd of curious idiots. “Thank the non-existent God the curtains are shut,” Ed almost muttered aloud. 

“Look at you,” Oswald spoke in a smug, sultry tone, “Saving the dimwits you despised so much for all these years. Isn’t  _ that  _ worthy of a true hero?”

“Ah shut  _ up, _ Ozzy - you know I did it for the family,  _ I still do, _ ” Ed protested whilst shifting about in the hospital bed. Those mattresses were rather top notch - it’s his spine overall that is the problem. And Cobblepot, seeing the abundance of gifts brought to Edward of all people, forced one of his henchmen to stuff all those into his jacket’s innards. 

“Hope you don’t mind having your apples with just a bit extra-iron and calcium, Eddie.”

“You know it’s not how it works-”

“Yah, I’m just teasing~ Oh boy, your teeth look  _ horrendous- _ ” Oz stopped in his tracks after a sour look from Ed: “Oh, I mean, they’re gonna be fine after a bit of patchin’ up,  _ heh, heheh. _ ”

“Let me guess: You’re worried for the dentist bills, aren’t you? It’s fine, I can pay.”

“No-no, Edward! It’s alright, you know me - nothing’s  _ too _ big of a spend to the dearest and the closest. Speaking of that - I brought you something, as well.”

“What is it?”

“You’ll see, give me a moment!”

With that said, Penguin fumbled around with his jacket for what felt like more-than a minute, but in reality it only took a couple of seconds. Hooboy, did the sedatives kick in? They must have, considering how empty the bag next to Ed is. Back to Oswald’s little get-well-soon gift - it’s an extra-large bag of sour patches. All green, all with just a bit more sour added to them. Nygma scratched through the graying sides of his head, only to then sleek the darker top part of it back:

“It’s very  _ sweet, _ Oswald, but I can’t really-”

“Yeah, I know. Should have expected you’d be hurt after, you know. Biting through Tetch’s garbage.”

“It  _ was _ garbage. But, ah - kudos to Ethan for building some sorta candy out of absolute trash.” In spite of what he has previously said, Edward bust the bag open with his fingers and bit into one of the patches with his side. Just how he likes it, jaw-achingly sour and with a cocaine-like kick. Perfect for his soured mood, really. “How is he, by the way?”

“Stressed!” Oz shrugged with visible concern he tried to hide away with a smile, “Says he misses both you and me, a lot. Says that he’s sorry all the time. And, you know? I believe him.” Afterward, Cobblepot produced a weighty and very unbirdlike sigh. It looks like he’s even more stressed than Ethan himself is. Ed’s here to help! Maybe. So long as he can get up and get out of this messy place with lots of pinging and huffing and moaning coming from other, less private spots. 

“He’ll get out of there soon,” Edward said, “We’ve already found the best lawyers for him, and the worst he’ll get is a couple weeks in that cesspit. Definitely enough for him to learn his lesson, though. But. Uhm.  _ Ah anyway- _ I still feel sorry for him, and I want for him to get out as soon as possible.  _ I know I fucked up, and… _ ” The Riddler held himself back, as well. Judging by the absent stare into Oswald’s soft midsection, he’s still processing everything that’s happened in the past two months. Slowly, yet ardently. “...I think I’m finally ready to accept some sort of responsibility. In terms of family. I guess. I can’t promise anything-”

“Shh… You  _ are _ ready. So long as you  _ think _ you are,” Ozzy’s hand now rested on Eddie’s shoulder. It hurt a wee bit, but not enough for the latter to squirm in discomfort. His bright blue eyes, too, trailed off alongside a train of thought. A train of hurtful, almost nostalgic thought, as the wavering grin has shown. “Well… I just remembered something important. They let me through ‘cause the admins said you’re being let out in an hour or so.”

“That’s good. Fucking  _ hell, _ I’ve been here for, what? A day? And I already feel sicker than I was when I laid there on the cold-ass ground.”

“ _ Hah!  _ I know the feel, Eddie. The cold’s pretty comfortable when you’re appropriately dressed for it…” 

“...Hey - you know what I was thinking about?”

“What?”

“Oh I… Just. Remember where we started. How it all began, really. And I have been… Quiet. Looking back at it.”

“Ah, it was pretty damn simple back then,” Edward’s hand dismissively waved at the shortly-stacked bird’s dreamy face, “You’re just having a nostalgia trip, Oz. It passes.”

“Right, yeah, but - it feels so  _ good _ , remembering how you used to be my mentor, and I was a raging egomaniac while stuck in Blackgate for the first time… T’was your  _ third  _ in Arkham when I first got got, wasn’t it?”

“Second - I’m older than you but I ain’t  _ that _ old,” Eddie’s sour tone grew a little sweeter through Oswald’s stupefied giggling. “Well I remember that, too. Actually, I reminisce of the first time we  _ met _ more.”

“At the PD?” Oz raised his brow.

“At the PD, yeah,” Ed nodded in response, “I remember you looking stupid and ragged and pretty damn  _ pathetic _ . You just got out of prison and snitched on Thorne. It was under Loeb, that slimy piece of shit - and he blew Thorne in his office for the little sums he could give to ‘im. So that was a bad idea. Good thing  _ I, _ the great and witty Riddler, knocked on the bars and distracted them from your charade while you were carried away. You spat so much  _ shit  _ at me that day, and it was court day, too, and then, when Jimbo let me go - we met up at the back. And we uh. Yeah.  _ You beat my ass. _ ” 

“Oh yeah! It was a big win for me at the time, I remember stepping on you with such a proud little face, Ed.  _ Good times-  _ Buh-But you did well!”

“Oh don’t sweeten it up, Oz - I ain’t shit. Especially to your judo skills.”

“Well - it doesn’t matter much now, does it?” Oswald’s voice shifted to a deeper and much more serious one, “We’ve become so much more than that. We’ve grown  _ above  _ this… This town, our goals when we were young,  _ as one usually does. _ Oh and - thank you.”

“For what? Huh? What are you-”

“For believing in me. Even when everyone else turned their backs on me, even when everyone thought I was either dead or would quit forever, never recovering from their own betrayal. Thank you, Edward.”

For once, Eddie felt… Cold. He craved the warmth of Ozzy’s hand resting there. Even though he was his mentor for most of his life, it appears it is  _ he  _ who needs help from him… Again. They complement each other. Alas. Oswald takes his leave, but - he grins, and Edward grins back at him as he approaches the door:

  
“Alright - time to get you out of here, Riddleman. Those scrubs look  _ awful _ on ya~”


	26. Masters' Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald and Edward pay a visit to Arkham after Ethan's assault, and examine the perpetrator of this attack, trying their best to talk to him. They don't get much of a response out of Ethan, however, and all they have gotten in the end is Dr. Arkham's condescending huffing. 
> 
> In the meantime, Arnold Wesker tries to perform a ritual in a desperate attempt to resurrect Mr. Scarface but is interrupted by his bosses: Ignatius Ogilvy and Martin Vickers. Though, they instead join the ritual and witness what a real demonic possession of a doll looks like! Spoiler alert, it's very much NOT like in "one of those horror movies". 
> 
> Finally, Gwen's forces arrive from South Africa to fulfill yet another one of the Riddler's mysterious plans. A cold war has already begun, and it's best the Bird and he makes sure it doesn't reach its more heated phase.

_ @Arkham Asylum, Gotham City: _

No one bothered cleaning up Arkham most of the time - this particular day in the middle of spring being the exception. The sun shone brightly, and demonstrated the horrifying trail of destruction the trash-bots left in their wake. Much to the officials’ surprise, there were only three casualties - and all of them weren’t the Enigmabots’ targets. Clearly a mostly-peaceful operation, it led to much less peaceful consequences when the Bats breached the windows and did it the old Bat way - quietly and discreetly turned into loudly and with batarangs flying left and right. 

Some of them were still stuck in the mess hall’s columns, as some of the more  _ special _ guests were led back to their cells by what one may presume to be SWAT without any markings. Those are Ogilvy’s forces working alongside the GCPD - a stressful sight, really. And an annoying one. Emperor Penguin’s been digging his nose into private funding and working with such despicables as Simon Stagg in order to garner power over the ammunition cops received. It might be better than what they’ve had previously, but being under Ignatius’s sponsorship meant a lot more than sneers and pats on the shoulder alongside big checks. 

“It itches!  **It itches!!!** How do you not understand?!” One of the escapees wailed as he was carried away, kicking and trying to scratch his already bruised and bleeding face. Some staff members were sitting around on the tables and benches inmates usually ate on, looking around with their gray, tired faces, and smoking what looks like the last cigarette of their lives. Soon enough, the remaining mutineers will most likely be muzzled and sent off to max-sec - that’s where the figures dressed in black, purple, and green were heading. 

They stood in contrast to the utter mess and soot around them - clean, polished, their stance proud, their eyes snootily trailing over to both the mutineers and those that pacified them, looking down upon them in an equally stuck-up measure. Though, one expects of Oswald Cobblepot to be dressed impeccably, Edward Nygma looks surprisingly well after what felt like two nights of hell in the Central Hospital:

It wasn’t just a three-piece suit - it was a suit that matched Oswald’s in design and color palette: Both the gloves and the boots were black, likely spitshined by low-end grogs to perfection. Both the pants and the tailcoat were of a vibrant, dark-emerald sort of green, with white pinstripes going around the entire circumference of theirs horizontally, as well as along the suit’s lining, overall. And, although the vest and the tie are charcoal, there’s a distinct opera scarf of an opulent violet, perhaps to match Oswald’s color scheme even more. Hell - it might be Ozzy’s  _ gift _ he mentioned prior. Regardless - the two of them looked stunning. And Eddie  _ knew _ he did. Hence why he carried himself forth and nearly eclipsed Cobblepot with how  _ serious  _ he looked. 

The Riddler and the Penguin had a meeting due. A meeting with a rather unpleasant, slimy, uncaring, somewhat-unhinged and somewhat-pathetic being that ran this place as a ‘constitutional monarch’ of sorts: Dr. Jeremiah Arkham. Here he is, fidgeting around with his clipboard and square-framed glasses. God, this man is forty-three and he never even bothered to change his horrendous haircut. Not even once. Though, it  _ is  _ Arkham - among them, Jerry looks rather average. Even if he does have a labcoat on, as well as additional security… Also provided by the courteous and generous Ignatius Ogilvy. 

“Ah yes, Mr. Cobblepot, Mr. Nygma. Long time no see,” Jeremiah spoke in an unimpressed and monotonous tone. Then, he stretched his palm out for a handshake. Both his visitors chose not to do so. Much to the added acidity laid out in his face. 

“What, Jerry? Missed having  _ me  _ behind bars?” Edward replied in a similar tone, and yet - he smiled to Dr. Arkham. It was good. Seeing him barely holding his temper together. Especially after he probably wet his pants a couple of times while being held hostage… Again. 

“Why? If it wasn’t for you, I’d probably be dead-”

“You would be.”

“I’m trying to be  _ grateful _ here.”

“You’re not trying hard enough, dipshit.”

“ **Stop it.** Post-haste,” Oswald had to interrupt the two, as their lenses began clouding up with steam. They were already quite close to one another, both rather unfazed by the looks of it, but certainly fuming deeply within. Oz carefully stepped in between them, utilizing his wide midsection to push both Dr. Arkham and Mr. Nygma apart. Cobblepot also held his palms out, but never quite touched them. “As far as I understand it, there is still a lot of  _ tension  _ between you two, but we are not here to bicker, we are not here to  _ mash wits together, _ mm-kay? We’re here for our son. To pay a visit. Right, Edward?”

Ed took his glasses off. He stared into Jeremiah’s cold, unfeeling eyes with ones of his own, actually filled with spite and green with acid they were spewing at him nonverbally. Then, with the glasses put back on, his head turned down and right, towards the shortly-stacked fowlman. Edward replied, as dryly as he could have: “We are. Let’s get moving.”

“Dr. Arkham is meant to lead us there,” Oz added, “It has not been confirmed, but Mr. Nygma is being held in a maximum security cell at the moment, is that correct?”

“Indeed he is,” Arkham stepped in, “With all possible measurements of safety installed.”

“This doesn’t mean much when we are talking about your facility, unfortunately. Now - did you  _ really _ put all your equipment to use to make sure Mr. Nygma’s biological child is safe?”

“I sure hope he does, because if he didn’t, I’ll-”

“Make sure he does this time,” Oswald interrupted Edward once again. It’s always best when  _ he  _ is the one negotiating. But, the appeal of punching Dr. Arkham in the face and beat his perfect row of teeth out of his jaws is, indeed, quite high. Especially when he’s doing his occasional, vulture-like nods and cranks his vulture-like neck back to let his vulture-like bowlcut of greasy brown hair drop down for a second. Ew. 

“You’re correct, Mr. Cobblepot. You are entirely correct.”

“I should be,” Oz lit a cigarette in opposition to the “no smoking” sign in his vicinity, “Because it’s best you remember that your grants from Wayne Industries have fallen short by thirty-five percent last year, and I have been generous enough to restore your losses with funds coming from my  _ own pocket. _ ”

“I remember that well, Mr. Cobblepot. Now, please! You may see for yourself,” Jeremiah’s long, lanky hand pointed to the heavily-armored door in a fair bit of distance from them. With a silent nod and a drag of the cigarette signifying Oswald’s compliance, he led the Penguin and the Riddler towards a rather cursed and not-quite-most-secure place in the entire Asylum. 

Although both Oswald and Edward knew it wasn’t, the maximum security wing of today’s Arkham at least  _ looked  _ secure, and therefore - already did eighty percent of the job. With that in mind, Jeremiah didn’t take too many steps to lead the two of them to Enigma - since he’s a trusted and cherished patient of Dr. Arkham, his cell is located quite close to the exit. The inner lining of the cell matches the exterior - it’s all light-gray and this rather vomit-inducing, swamp-green sort of color trailing down below. Certainly reminds the Penguin of his time in Vlatava and the subsequent Soviet Union, that horrendous color scheme. 

And here he is - the main talk of yesterday evening’s news, himself. Ethan’s trial went through surprisingly fast - well, to an average eye, that is. Mr. Cobblepot has put generous donations into his legal protection, and Mr. Nygma made sure the trial was fair and democratic. The judge carried out the sentence as quickly as she possibly could, and thus - Ethan ended up in here instead of doing time in Blackgate for quite a long term. Hell, almost as long as Oswald’s designated ten years back in the day!  _ Of which he served only two, but that’s besides the point.  _

In spite of his legal name being changed, Ethan still had “Cobblepot” inscripted on his scrubs’ name tag. Gray really fit him, but the fabric itself did not. He was prostrating on the bed in a rather weird position, doing leg stretches in a lazy attempt to stretch out his leathery skin alongside it. Thankfully, staff allowed Ethan to keep his wig on, as well as most of his makeup. Still, even with it - the burn scars were quite visible beneath it, and they certainly made Ozzy visibly wrinkle his nose. A momentary gesture, really, but he immediately put it off, afraid Ethan might notice. He pretended he didn’t, portraying a smile after a good night’s sleep.

“So. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“We’ve come to see how you’ve been here, Ethan,” Oswald’s smile at least looked genuine, so the inmate had no need to discourage him with his stone-cold face. Oz received one from him, too, but not Edward. 

“Well… As you can see, I’m doing fine,” Ethan added, “Will that be all? I’m a little busy.”

“With what?” Ed asked. 

“Processing what happened? And giggling about the outcome, I guess?” Enigma paused, if only for a moment, to come closer to the glass and set his ass down on a stone-cold floor: 

“...Have  _ you  _ two read through the case, actually? It’s ridiculous. Bullshit. I get it you wanted to save my ass,  _ probably literally,  _ but that actually made me giggle. Hear me out: I was diagnosed with  _ acute dissociative personality disorder,  _ with the cause behind it being an obsession with the Riddler,  _ who is, well, you, _ and unrecognized, untreated trauma in regards to mental health. As well as, you know, the usual “severe depressions” and “chemical imbalances” and “affected states”, yada-yada-yada. Dad. Dads. At least  _ try  _ to sound decent when you’re forging shit~”

By now, Oswald was downright startled. Edward looked around the hallway in search of cameras - they were there, but none of them were turned on ever since the new Head of Security disappeared “under mysterious circumstances,” in accordance to the yellow press of this ratchet-ass town. 

“...So you would much rather spend time in Blackgate, possibly forever, than be here?”

“Well I don’t know,  _ Dad _ , feeling guilty doesn’t give any big answers right away,” Ethan shouted condescendingly, “And I know it’s all my fault. And I’m sorry. For… You know. Basically, relationships don’t get patched up in a day!  _ You  _ of all people should have told me that, Oswald.”

“I’m… Sorry, Ethan. I’m sorry for not telling the truth-”

“You’ve already told me that! Fucking hell, I’ve already accepted it, even! Now. Just leave. I need time, okay? I need time.” The Enigma then rose from his cold and hardy seat, and landed himself back on the sleeping bench with a loud, uncaring thud. Edward audibly rolled his eyes and stepped out of Ethan’s view, heading towards the exit. “ _ Ungrateful little shit, _ ” he muttered. 

“ _ Oh don’t say that, _ ” Oz muttered in turn, joining his side not long after, “ _ Do you… Reminisce? _ ”

_ “Yeah, Oswald. Seeing Ethan act up like that makes me despise myself more. Ugh. _ ”

“ _ Worry not, Edward. He will learn. He is learning. And, after all… He doesn’t know what awaits him in just a few more days~ _ ”

***

_ @The Empyrean, Gotham City: _

At last, everything is prepared. 

Incense had its faint presence in Arnold Wesker’s nostrils. The entire chamber he walked into was cleansed by him beforehand, so the holy smoke was still lingering around… Only for it to be replaced with anguish and sulfur in the next few minutes. 

Besides incense, there were also candles burning about, set in a distinct circle yet to be drawn by the broken Ventriloquist. Pieces of aluminium and ivory got scattered around the circle, as well, but not within it, in order not to taint the energy that must be present there. The ritual must be completed flawlessly, as intended - otherwise,  _ Mr. Scarface _ may never return from his day-job to protect the soft and meager host. 

When Arnie says every little detail must be arranged perfectly - he  _ means  _ it. Years upon years of being in service to various masters as a Muppet of various professions has led to quite the experienced hands working truly flawlessly on arrangements meant to please them. This time, however, not only Emperor Penguin’s ally is coming back, but the  _ real  _ master of Arnold Wesker. A disgusting, infernal creature meant to pose itself as a mob boss, and, to Arnold’s own surprise - one who  _ enjoys  _ such a low position of power in the real world. It looks like thugs never change in Heaven or Hell, after all. 

Wesker knelt. The chalk in his left palm was spread carefully across the designated surface, light-brown floorboards contrasting with its pure, angelic white. Whence it stuck to the polished floors, the Ventriloquist could move himself around freely. He started from the center, and drew the rest out from there: First, a small pentagram with the seals of the first Six Princes. Then, as the geometric figures progressed further, more and more seals were added, until a proper heptagram with all of Ars Goetia depicted on its rims and innards was prepared for the ritual itself. Now truly and fully ready, Arnie’s shaking and sweating palms opened up the briefcase. 

Ah yes,  _ he _ is here. And he looks quite handsome after all the patchwork done! Scarface was saved mostly thanks to Martin, who hired him before Mr. Ogilvy did, and found him in a state of utter disarray. This is how Mr. Dunlow came about, but, truth be told - he never  _ was  _ as alive as Mr. Scarface was… Is. Will be. Besides that, Wesker worrisomely, carefully put Mr. Scarface back together, strong magnetic joins producing quiet metallic clicks as they did so. Then - instead of the birthday suit, the corpse of a puppet obtained an actual one - a distinct black one, with yellow pinstripes, and of course - a matching orange tie, just so he and the host look well working together. 

Loud, booming steps made Arnold flinch and nearly drop Mr. Scarface into the circle. Thankfully, he was carefully laid there beforehand. Wesker twisted and looked to the side, seeing both Mr. Ogilvy and the young Mr. Vickers at the front door, interrupting the process by letting light shine through the entrance’s curtains. 

“Is it… Complete?” Ignatius asked, with great uncertainty.

“N-No, sir, not quite!” Arnie replied with contrasting confidence, “B-But you might as well participate… I-It will help me, I mean.”

“I must say, Mr. Wesker, that I am still rather sceptical about supernatural matters-”

“In that case - y-your presence will be all the more b-buh-beneficial,” Arnold rose from his knees and quickly moved forth, taking both Martin and Iggy by their palms and gently leading them forth. The two followed, and, once they were close enough to the circle - also knelt before the makeshift altar in the maid’s quarters. 

Surprisingly enough, the youngest bird wasn’t nearly as concerned as the oldest. Ignatius looked from one side to the other as the three of them formed a circle of flesh around the circle of chalk. Visible only in the candles’ light, Wesker took his signature glasses off before taking a good look at both the excited Martin and the unwell Iggy with a long, arduous stare of his dilated pupils. 

“N-Now, I’m in no room to give out  _ orders, _ b-but for your own good, sirs - do not say a thing. I have plenty of experience in th-this field, so it is b-best you let me handle it, all-right?”

Martin nodded in unison to Ogilvy’s “All-right.”

“Very well, then,” Wesker spoke with a faint, worried smile, “I… Suppose we can begin.”

The ceremony’s beginning was, indeed, anticlimactic. Instead of loud, demonstrative proclamations, there were nothing but the pacifying smell of incense and the quiet, relaxing whispers of Arnold’s. This could be therapy! In theory. Martin, still excited, never shut his eyes, whereas Ignatius looked down at the restored puppet, maintaining that same healthy degree of caution in order to not get caught in the flames… Just in case it’ll be just like in those horror movies. 

Except… It wasn’t. Not quite, at least. There were no big flames or levitation - instead, Wesker’s whispers turned to actual words, and words turned to loud proclamations expected in the beginning. It appears as if he’s turned a little more pallid, and that the sweat and tears he’s producing are a bit more crimson. But it must be the candles, surely. The most horrifying part started when the puppet began  _ convulsing _ on its own, as Wesker’s words reached their peak, and they were not the Latin the two of them were expecting. With the last “amen” (the only word Martin and Iggy understood) pronounced by the Ventriloquist, he slumped down and tripped face-first into the chalk-laden circle. And the puppet remained still. 

Only for a moment. 

Then, the convulsions returned, and the infernal screams that came from its wide-open mouth soon turned all the louder, causing the two to shrivel and lose their consciousness for what felt like ages. It’s only a second, however. With that done, the convulsions have stopped. Ogilvy’s vision, no longer blurred, examined the circle - the puppet was gone. Instead, it is now resting against Wesk- No - it’s banging the poor puppeteer’s head with its leg, glowing charcoals for eyes squinted and big nutcracker teeth grit tight. 

Even more curiously - it spoke in a whinier, louder, and downright older tone of Arnold’s own voice: 

“C’maaawn, Dummy, geddup!” He screamed, “It ain’t _dat_ big of a deal! I says **gedda-** _Ohhhhh shiet..._ ” Scarface’s shiny, no, glowing eyes trailed over to smiling Martin and scowling Ignatius. The latter already rose from his knees, and used his height to loom imposingly over the wooden imp:

“Now, just who in the Hell  _ are _ you?” He said. 

“Ya’ dead fuckin’ aunt, dat’s who!” Scarface swiftly replied while his host regained consciousness, “I’se got a betta’ question - who da **fuck** are you’se?!”

“...Oh. Right, forgive my manners,” Iggy chose to let it slide, still squinting at Scarface while Martin completely (and silently) lost his marbles seeing a living puppet swear and behave worse than an animal’s worth. “I’m Ignatius Ogilvy. Emperor Penguin, Man-Bat, all that,” he said, “This young chap right here is Martin Vickers - my adoptive brother-turned personal assistant. Now you are-”

“I’m Scarface, dat’s all ya need ta’ know. I’se know shit you mortals don’t gotsta know yet an’ I’se been workin’ wit Dummy here eva’ since I got whacked… Twice.” Scarface showed the two of them his two tiny wooden fingers, which turned out to be much more flexible than they appeared. 

Weird. This is all so, very weird. And now the Muppet is hugging him, muttering sweet nothings into the crisp fabric of the puppet’s suit. Scarface rolled his eyes and got back onto Wesker’s shoulder, the glasses now present on Arnie’s face and obscuring his vision. As well as a fair portion of his content face. And now this is awkward. 

“He uh… Martin can’t really  _ talk, _ that’s why he’s got a notebook.”

“Uh-huh. I’se figgered. So you’se work fer Penguin?”

“Against him. We’ve been his children at different points of time, and being Oswald’s child isn’t the best place to be, to say so politely.” 

“Uh-huh, awright. Skip them’s fermalities - you’se is workin’  _ against  _ Schnozzlepot, I’m in dis shit. Whudever you’se runnin’ here, Iggs.” 

“I-It’s a club, Mr. Scarface,” Wesker stepped in and got gently nudged by the puppet’s fist.

“Goddit. Thanks, Peach~”

“So how are you-”

“I’m a fuckin’  _ spawn a’ Satan, _ Iggs!”

“Ignatius. Please.”

“Fine,  _ Eegnayshus. _ I’se wanna git outta here an’ have some proper Earthen  _ booze, _ Dummy. Whadya say, eh? Eh?” The nudges continued as Ogilvy fumed inside, judging by his blush and forced grin. Wesker, in the meantime, giggled akin to a frothy schoolgirl and balled himself up from the loving “punches” of his  _ proper  _ master. 

“O-Oh, well, you know I don’t drink, b-but we can certainly go out to the bar, sir~”

“In order for us to make a  _ proper _ partnership,” Ogilvy stepped in once more, “We will have to make a contract. Please, before you do - proceed with me alongside your…  _ Host, _ and-”

“ **Ay!** ” Scarface screamed again, pointing at Ignatius with his teensy finger: “I says skip da fuckin’ formalities - I mean it. We’se is gunna do it later, I jus’ came back with a fresh bod an’ I wanna get fuckin’  _ wasted. _ You’ve got a good club, doe - I’m gunna be payin’ fer all da shit I down, no worries~”

How can a puppet even  _ get _ wasted? How does all of this work? Ignatius was both confused and frustrated beyond belief. One more whine of this cocky creature sitting on his butler’s shoulder, and he’s going to woge again. Gritting his teeth as Arnie departed with a nonverbal “Sorry Sir” in his eyes, Ogilvy took a deep breath, and released the tension. Martin was too good of a boy to see him mad. He did it for him, and  _ only  _ for him. Perhaps letting Wesker delve into his delusions wasn’t a great idea, but it is what it is, now. Perhaps Scarface will prove himself as a legitimate partner - at least, he  _ looks  _ like someone who gets shit done. He better, because if not - Iggy’s already decided to use his commanding little fingers as toothpicks. 

And this is how Scarface returned to Earth - loudly, obnoxiously, and making enemies from every possible corner. Frankly-speaking - with a bang! For Arnold’s buck. 

***

_ @Iceberg Lounge, Gotham City: _

“And tha-at is all for tonight, thank you for coming, ladies and gents, thank you, thank you!” The announcer’s whiny and nasal voice rang from the stage, as the reverberating waves of said voice were transferred across the entire main hall of the Iceberg Lounge. An occasional guest might have a hard time swallowing whilst looking at the ceiling and the columns of it, which vibrated alongside the voices that kept ringing from the main stage. After all, it was ice. Thick and solid, but still! Actual, genuine ice, the cyan surface of which provides more reflective lighting across the entire “cavern” the main hall is than actual lights do. 

Economizing. It’s all about economizing space, whilst still making the structure authentic and mesmerizing to look at. The ceiling alone must have costed a fortune and at least three cartridges of Mr. Freeze’s frost gun! Furthermore, the elaborate columns have various Nordic patterns chiseled into them, never melting due to the temperature maintained at a constant negative twenty-five Celsius. Even the floors were made of glass - with an elaborate cavern (which was really a flooded cargo space of a tanker) sprawling underneath them. Within these well-lit waters and alongside those rusted, algae-laden surfaces - plenty of fish swam about, which was eaten by the various species of  _ penguins _ that occasionally went out and slid around on their bellies across thematic, icy slides. 

The second Iceberg wasn’t nearly as drab and boring as the first building all the way back in the Diamond District. Furthermore - it could  _ float _ . It  _ was _ floating above the surface at this very moment. Thankfully, the tanker could hold much more when it was as empty as it was. And that’s what made the second Iceberg so unique - not only its location, but its capabilities. 

Oswald Cobblepot remains one of the biggest smugglers in Gotham City to date. Especially in terms of illegal arms import. Hence why the Iceberg, in spite of its fragile looks, was one of the most fortified locations in Gotham City. Hence why a good number of rich folks, both of legal and illegal matters, kept their funds there instead of the infamous Central Bank of Gotham. Only foreigners and fools would store their money in a place which gets raided every Thursday afternoon. Every opportunistic twat knew it, and as such - went to Penguin for better storage and higher fees as a result of that. 

Oswald always looks rich. But not filthy-rich. Tonight, he’s got a rather classical and bland-looking morning suit, with an appropriate tailcoat, pants, gray vest, black tie, white shirt, and so on and so forth. He looks rather formal - but it isn’t for the guests. Not the ones on the dance floor or behind stalls getting wasted and losing their fortunes for his amusement. No. There were  _ better _ guests to be expected tonight, and they’ve been waiting for him at the table. Thus, once the show was over and the party-goers’ majority disappeared, so did the elusive and illustrious Penguin. 

Penelope and Gwendolyn Solust both sat at the other end of the table. Alongside a pack of roughed-up henchmen and a batch of Oswald’s own, more experienced troops. Ed sat right beside them, waiting for the bird to return from a glorious evening to discuss the more or less  _ serious  _ matters at hand. The table’s already been served to them - but they demanded nothing but ice-cold, spring water, served in wine glasses for some odd reason. At least it looked good. Plus, Oswald’s a bit of an avid water drinker, himself. Waddling up to his seat, he took the same glass afterwards and raised it with a slightly shaky hand:

“Lady Solust.”

“Mister Cobblepot.”

“It’s a pleasure to have you and your people here! Genuinely. I thought you wouldn’t have come, but you’ve greatly surpassed my expectations.”

“Indeed we have, and we wish to ask for your pardon. There were some…  _ Complications _ back home.”

“Them being?”

“In essence, the job being incomplete,” Lark answered in Gwen’s stead, “To elaborate on that - the remaining Twenty-Eights rose up and tried to overthrow Lady Solust as soon as you left with Mr. Nygma.”

“Aye, aye,” followed in an almost hivemind-like unison from the rest of the crowd. There is a whole theme of Twenty-Six tattooed on their hands. Twenty-Sixes work with money, so perhaps it’s also some kind of… Blessing? So that their work won’t be fucked up with the help of magic, supposedly so. Oz never quite got it, but hey - that’s a capable, and visibly well-trained workforce he sees before himself. Which is more-than enough for the plan arranged by none other than formally dressed Mr. Nygma, respectively. 

“But has it been complete now?”

“That is correct, Mr. Cobblepot. Naturally, I hope that all the resources and time we have spent are going to be-”

“Covered and repaid? They already are, Lady Solust,” Oswald finally took a seat and folded his gloved fingers into a pyramid-like shape: “You and your men are going to obtain accommodation, as well as all the necessary resources, in an accordingly-covert manner. You needn’t worry about covering the costs or maintaining the cover. That it solely my responsibility, because I fully understand how  _ inconvenient _ it must have been.”

“Quite a landing pad you’ve set up for us here!” Gwendolyn Solust spoke through a big smile, holding back a chuckle. It’s nice seeing a gentle, yet intimidating boss so genuinely happy… And tired. “Speaking of landing pads,” she continued, “If you will pardon us - we’ll come to rest. Sixteen hours of travelling can wear many out, don’t you think?”

“Of course,” Oswald replied with a matching grin and tired gaze, “Take all the time you need for tonight - we will have another meeting at ten tomorrow.”

Gwen silently rose from her seat, and, with a court bow of her head given to the proper King of Gotham, led herself out, alongside her sister and the rest of the troupe that came alongside her. Their steps were quiet and monotonous, never quite louder than Lady Solust’s, their outfits - impeccable. Their demeanor - cold, yet welcoming. Not too rough, but not too soft. Just the way it should be. 

“ _ My did she train those low-end thugs well, _ ” Cobblepot muttered somewhere in his head. 

At last, only he and Edward were left in this spacious and elaborately-dressed conference hall. Nothing of great significance was done today, it seems, but no - the sole  _ arrival _ of their South African division meant a grandiose deal. Especially to the Riddler. As per usual, Ed had a plan, and its execution depended on his vision. A vision Oswald knew could produce errors. With that in mind, Cobblepot’s grin faded away and was, therefore, replaced with a tired face Ed knew and adored on occasion. 

“Something bothering you?” Nygma asked.

“Do you…” Oz stopped, swallowing as loudly as he could have, “...Do you think it’s gonna work?”

“What exactly are you talking about?”

“The um. The  _ plan _ of yours?”

“When  _ didn’t _ my plans work, Oswald?”

“Well, the first breakout, that one time you crossed paths with Harvey in Gotham Central, then there was the entire Zero Year paraphernalia-”

“Okay, okay, that was a  _ different _ me!” Ed raised his voice defensively, “This time, it holds on not just trust, but statistics and manipulation. If you trust the folks who killed an entire  _ army _ for you - they’re gonna be just as efficient. Statistically-speaking, since the probability of failure is only about three percent. I’ve calculated it myself.”

“Alright, alright. I understand, Eddie - no need to look at past mistakes, I believe your brains will not fail anyone this time. I simply do not want…” Oswald rose up, and waddled on over to the side of the hall. There was a wardrobe, and in the wardrobe - there’s a hidden bird cage, full of tiny peeping finches. They must be quite hungry - good thing Cobblepot took his jacket off and unveiled a bunch of seed hidden beneath it. His small, thick hand undid the cage’s lock, and let the tiny friends of his flock up to him, sit on his arms and shoulders, and eat the seed spread out in his gloved hands. All for the little buddies - the smiles, the food, and the warm, comfortable cushion. 

Oz got distracted, and Ed huffed out rather condescending. Cobblepot’s attention got back to him, and he finished his reply: “Well… I don’t want for Ignatius to end up like… Joshy. Somehow I feel like Joshy’s still  _ out there, _ but he isn’t, well. In a good place, to put it simply.”

“We already know he’s been riddled with bullets, but I wouldn’t be surprised if his rotten corpse got somehow reanimated,” Nygma rose from his seat and walked over to Oswald again. 

Now that they were close, some of the finches peeped and sat on  _ his _ shoulders, instead. They jumped around, left and right, and made so much noise Ed wouldn’t have a second of doubt that they could be used as another means of torturing some uncanny prisoner. Alas. They’re too  _ cute  _ for that. Though, Edward’s eyes spoke of cold, wretched ruthlessness, as his lips parted, mustering up words:

“If you won’t have the guts to pull the trigger - I will. Because you are the only person that matters to me right now, Oswald. If Ignatius doesn’t come to his senses - we’ve never had him in the first place, and please…

  
_ Don’t let him get into your head. _ ”


	27. Paralysis by Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josh and Jason are on a mission to capture Tigress for reasons not yet known! Though, Joshua breaks down during a mission which is caused by Jason's rambling - they share quite the bonding moment, and ooh! Flashbacks are there, too. 
> 
> The grand meeting of the Emperor's Court commences! And they have a secret member which is, therefore, revealed by the end of Emperor Penguin being upset at the naughty and mouthy puppet that is Scarface. 
> 
> Finally, Ethan Nygma turns into an asshole nihilist! Without many consequences besides being released under his prescription's obligations.

_ @The Narrows, Gotham City: _

Back in the sewers. 

The foul stench of whatever was flowing around in the canals to the side of theirs was all the more prevalent. A sweet, iron-laced smell of blood also made its way from the surface. Someone was killed again - not much for the news in this part of Gotham. Colonel Jason Todd and Junior Lieutenant Joshua Cobblepot advanced forth, not even noticing the occasional troop that rested against the surface. Dense, coagulated blood dripping down from their chests and fingertips. 

“Gross,” Josh muttered. 

“Didn’t you claim to be responsible for, like, a hundred murders with bare hands and a hammer?” Jason raised his brow beneath the mask.

Joshua furrowed them, instead: “Just ‘cause I killed people doesn’t mean I enjoy the sight of a rotting corpse. Not after Vlatava, anyway. Never, actually.”   
“Or being one, yourself,” Todd said with an evident smirk beneath. Cobblepot’s mood soured all the more evidently, as his steps have gotten heavier and threatened to spoil the mission. “Fine, fine,” Jason continued, “You know, corpse humor’s one of my shticks, and stuff.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“So what is it that got to you so much?” Jason’s question was genuine. Josh saw that, and, instead of growing pissy again, he let it slide - therefore, letting his mentor continue: “What’s so special about Vlatava, and - how could a  _ Cobblepot _ of all people end up like you?”

“It’s a long story,” Rockhopper answered vaguely. 

Jason clearly wanted to know more, but Josh isn’t ready for this. Still, he insisted: “Well, it’ll be a while until we’ll find that bitch, anyway. We got time, kid.”

“Ugh, fine, you won’t crawl off my ass if I don’t, will ya?”

“Nope, I won’t~”

“Fine,” Joshua sighed, and stopped in his tracks, listening to every step as they progressed forth:

“I have… Always sought my uncle’s approval. Jason Cobblepot, my father, was a  _ meager, sickly _ man, who escaped his older brothers’ wrath and left Oswald alone to face it. He died much like Tucker Cobblepot - of severe pneumonia. So yeah, I grew up without a dad.”

“A classical beginning, ain’t it?”

“Well yeah, yeah, you could say that! Anyway, I digress - then I grew up with my mum, in Codburgh. My Bar-Mitzvah was a chance to prove myself to Oswald, but that got scuffed.”

“Nasty story,” Jason added, “I remember it being in the news-”

“Don’t mention it,” Joshua continued, “I forgave  _ her _ pasty ass after that, but Oz? He didn’t even want to  _ see _ us after that. Just hugged me and said a cold goodbye. So you know what I did?”

“What?” Jason asked, his tone growing more sincere and genuine by the minute. 

Joshua, in the meantime, dug through the rubble of the old catacombs in order to find the entrance to Tigress’s possible location - it’s a dead end, but, judging by the knocks on the rocks, it should be hollow. Thus, the Rockhopper unveiled his hammer, and got to work:

“I got into the fucking RAF to prove him wrong.”

“We were thrown into the god-damn  _ middle _ of it,” Josh continued reminiscing. The dull sounds of his hammer breaking through the bricks occasionally muffled his words out: “ _ Gah- _ We were scouting about, right over their capital,  _ phew, _ no plane survived that day. We all-  _ hrmh- _ fell down behind enemy lines. Most died, but those that weren’t either-  _ ghrgh- _ escaped, or got dragged down into the Catacombs. Vertigo. His  _ shitheads, _ the Romanians, the Chetniks _ \-  _ they’re responsible for all of this, f-for the war that drags on, for countless lives lost, for a genocide of their own people, for hostages, torture, ransoms, power vacuum - everything you’ve heard on the news is true.” 

Joshua’s strikes have gotten less steady and more impulsive, but the Renegade let him continue: “But, as per fucking usual, no one _does_ _anything._ Oswald did _nothing_ as I remained below the surface. Mauled by dogs, ev’ry part of me ripped apart and reassembled, my mind turned to mush by the Count - because who cares? He didn’t. No one would. I crawled out of there on my own, and no matter how much I tried, no matter that I survived, twice… Nothing worked. Nothing worked to get his approval!”

Finally, the Rockhopper started kicking the wall down instead of breaking it down via his tools. But oh, they were put to use, as well - Joshua threw his entire body onto the wall and pushed through it, finally unveiling a long, prim and proper corridor which led to an armored door. Though, Cobblepot didn’t step forward after that. He squatted down in front of the hole and rubbed his lenses with gloved fingers. Loud gasping and panting could be heard coming through the respirator. He… He might be crying. Jason stepped forth and laid his hand on his shoulder - Josh shook it off, saying: “Everything I’ve ever done has been for a shit purpose, and has gone to shit alongside it. No matter what I do, it’s all going to shit, man. It’s all going down the fucking drain!”

“Maybe so,” Jason said, squatting down next to Josh, “But if there’s something to push you forward - does it really matter? What’s the point of rememberin’ shit that happened instead of makin’ sure shit that will happen’s good, kid? Actually, take your mask off.”

“Why?”

“Smoke break.”

Cobblepot obliged. Indeed, his eyeliner was messy beneath the lenses, but so was his mentor’s. They weren’t in an exposed space of sorts, so there wouldn’t be any trouble. Hopefully. Joshua’s hands were shaky, but he still took a long, pacifying drag from the already-lit ciggie. 

“Y’know, I felt the same,” Jason said in a deep, sorrowful mumble.

Rockhopper’s lips formed a scowl again: “I know, Colonel Todd. That’s why I looked up to you throughout the three years I’ve been there.”

“But then I realized, that Br… The Bat, really did do something to help me. To try and get me out. He couldn’t find a replacement for so long he nearly threw his cowl away after my supposed death.”

“What are you imp-”

“Cobblepot, the Penguin, sent four different search parties after you.  _ Four _ of ‘em. And none ever returned from Vlatava. I watched him break the fuck  _ down. _ I mean, he usually does, but I think it’s you that concerned ‘im the most in some of ‘em. So all I’m sayin’ is, kid - Oz did way more for findin’ you than the Bat ever did for findin’ me.”

Those words petrified Joshua. Although the cigarette was finished and now burned against his gloved fingertips, he couldn’t feel a thing. His eyes, only slightly bloodied, focused on Jason, and for once - had a clear vision of a grievous realization in them. “He… He never told me that. I knew he did do  _ something, _ but… Four?” Josh stammered, shakily putting his mask back on. That… Was a lot to process. Within his head, Joshua’s already forgiven Oswald, but he could not forgive himself that easily. For rebelling, for abandoning his mother, for the countless lives he himself claimed back in Codburgh as its biggest warlord. This wicked, sorrowful town. Nothing good came of it - especially himself. There’s no one to blame for what happened to him, but himself. 

Jason felt that. He felt the guilt destroying Joshua from within, now. It wasn’t the right time for it. He probably shouldn’t have pushed Josh to this realization just yet, but he’ll have to either get over it, or not get over at all. Colonel Todd finally stepped forth, and prepared to use his tools to infiltrate the building, instead. But then, Cobblepot said: 

“I’ll… Reveal myself, once it’s done. To him and Nygma. Nobody else.”

“Your choice, kid. If you trust ‘em well enough - I guess y’could. But it’ll be a shame to not have you by my side. I’m gettin’ used to you.”

“I think I’m ready,” Josh replied, hastily getting up and unsheathing his guns from their holsters: “In any case - what else do I have to lose? Oh, well - I have a lot to lose, but you get what I mean- Let’s head inside. And…  _ Thank you, Jason. _ ”

The Renegade gave the Rockhopper a court nod, putting his mask on in the meantime. And thus, the two of them prepared to bash the door out. On one, two, three…

***

_ @The Empyrean, Gotham City: _

It’s good to see Thasius back. No, seriously - Ignatius missed him a ton throughout his two-week-long stay in Arkham. Ogilvy’s eyes looked especially bright as the big bird rested on both his shoulders, taking pieces of bland, hardy jerky out of his bare hands. The loud croons and munching noises were almost in unison to all the other sounds in the room, as the Emperor’s Court gathered up to discuss their plans for their petty rivalries and great sums, as well as internal squabbles and strife for control.

The first noise, and the most noticeable one, was the occasional coin flip. Loud, metallic clinking emanated from it as the sharp, dark nail of Two-Face’s scorched half launched it into the air and then let it land right on the open palm. Harvey was the one speaking for the two- no, three of them tonight. The kindest of all alterations of the ex-DA’s character. Hence why his half-lidded stare doesn’t look all-too undermining - the healthy side of the face looks… Content. The same cannot be said about Harv, who took up the other half. Nor the Judge, who was currently reclining within Harvey’s noggin. 

Then, there was the occasional clack of a knife and fork against the plate, as well as the occasional bone-crunch. Those came from Laszlo and Eduardo. Two rather contrasting characters, and yet driven by so many similar traits. Pyg dug into his rare “steak” with that elaborate fork he had - Flamingo preferred a more hands-on approach to his meat. Although the two of them looked snazzy, the Professor’s dressed more appropriately for the occasion - with muddled colors and an elaborate suit, instead of a load of leather and a neon-pink Hawaiian shirt. 

Other, more miniscule sounds, flooded Iggy’s office thereafter: Black Mask’s occasional creaks and shifts, the Ventriloquist’s occasional whispers and squirms, Clock King’s cuckoos going nuts in his suitcase, and of course - that nasty puppet gushing down bourbon. Gulp after gulp after another agonizing  _ gulp. _ Wesker looks especially awkward watching Scarface gush booze down in such a nonchalant manner at a very important meeting. They, too, were direct contrasts of one another. Ogilvy held himself still whilst feeding his pet, his eyes lazily traveling from one corner of the table to the other. Naturally, a couple of them were still missing. 

“Looks like the main person of interest is late to our little gathering,” Ignatius pronounced his words distinctly, calmly, yet there was still tension felt by the rest of the organization. Hence why the sounds intensified from this point on. Until Scarface loudly planted his bottle against the table and almost made it shatter. Arnold and Pyg shuddered. Ogilvy’s brows furrowed. 

“Why’se we gotsta wait fer some skirt wit’ a buncha meat, Bawss? What kinda shit izzat?” Scarface was visibly upset, so there’s some after-smog coming out of his mouth, all while poor Wesker has to bend forth in order for him to stand at the table. 

Emperor Penguin remained silent for a moment. “This skirt you speak of is a crucial asset in dismantling Cobblepot’s empire without causing a fuss,” Ogilvy said then, “Without her support, our plans for Penguin, his allies, and the city, are doomed to fail. Much like others did.”

“We’se ain’t like the others!” Scarface bawled. 

“I must agree,” Sionis stepped in, “We’re bigger than Cobblepot when we’re together. Much bigger. And all we have to do is wait it out?”

“It seems so,” Iggy continued, “What? You want to come in guns blazing? Or try to capture hostages again? Because both of these options have failed miserably beforehand...” Ogilvy then rose from his seat to reach for another jerky bar: “...You saw it with your very own eyes.”

While Thasius finished off his meal for the evening, Scarface forced his host to get up from his resting place, as well. Arnie “led” his boss up closer, stepping over the fancy plates and occasional wine spills after a feast held beforehand. The wooden imp squinted at Ignatius’s imposing and grandiose figure, and in spite of that - scowled in the face of danger: “Dun’ be a chickenshit. We come in ‘ere, we whack ‘em clean, we get they shit once the contracts are there, an’ den-”

Scarface didn’t finish his sentence. Iggy’s loud whistling muffled it out. Immediately upon command, Thasius cawed as loud as he could, forcing others to back away. Now the puppet is left alone, petrified, with its host balling up in an attempt to save himself. Thankfully, the grand condor only aimed for the pile of wood that stood in front of him, effectively pinning him down to the table with one taloned paw and grabbing at his face with the other. “Hold onto his ankle,” Ignatius told Arnold. Calmly, yet imposingly. Wesker stammered at first, but then obliged Ogilvy’s orders - that way, Scarface couldn’t lose his “consciousness” just yet. So that he could feel the claws digging into his artificially-crafted body. 

“Lemme go!  _ Agh- _ I sez lemme go!” The wooden mobster spat out in a much less confident tone. 

“I really think you should  **dig in more,** ” Harv spoke for Harvey. 

“C’mon now,” Roman shook his head and took a drag of his cig. 

“Mister Ogilvy! M-Mister Ogilvy, please, d-don’t do this!” Arnold stepped in, begging for mercy to his actual boss. 

“Wait, Arnold, wait. This has to be addressed,” Ignatius maintained an aura of calm around himself, yet projected stress and worry onto others. Then, he continued: “Now, let me be clear, Mr. Scarface. Your voices are taken into consideration by me, but we are  _ not exactly _ a democratic gathering. The final decision is behind the majority, and the majority, including myself, has decided to make peace with the Boers. Insulting me will only result in your suffering, so - call me a chickenshit again, and I’ll throw you to the thermites. Am I perfectly clear?”

“Ghh-fine! Fine, Bawss! Jus’ call ‘im off, we good, we good!” Scarface gave a nod to Iggy, but only made Thasius’s claws dig deeper into the wood of his artificial body. Ogilvy put on a pleasant smile, and whistled again. The condor retreated back to his shoulders. And now, Emperor Penguin traced his eyes back to the shocked Rogues… As well as a lady in a cream-colored dress standing at the entrance.

“So… This is a serious meeting, and the first thing I see is that you’re torturing a puppet,” Lady Solust spoke in a deep, steady voice, matching Ogilvy’s: “Got to say, gentlemen - I’m  _ intrigued. _ Now, I must apologize. You must understand - sixteen hours of flight are a tiresome matter.”

“Of course,” Iggy said, “Please, sit down so that we can commence the meeting,  _ and the dinner, _ proper.”

Naturally, Gwendolyn didn’t come alone. She had a whole gaggle of thuggish-looking yet well-dressed folks trail behind her. Both men and women in her troupe had distinct tattoos and rough-ended faces. Quite a strange feature, though - it’s understandable. Someone has to look rough when they themselves are so gentle. 

Lady Solust settled in her designated seat, and called the rest of her advisors off, leaving her alone in a room of tired, angry men. Not meager men, either. Her eyes trailed down and met the Emperor Penguin’s, all while both Scarface and Arnold trailed backwards, to their respective seats at the back. Whilst the… Other members of this freakshow already dug their teeth into their meals, neither Iggy nor her had the time or the hunger for this elaborately-made dinner. Arnie certainly put his best traits into it, and Ogilvy made sure he did. 

“So,” Ignatius began, “The roles have already been assigned in between the members of our clique, respectively. You're a relatively… New face, but it doesn’t mean we have to get to know each other closely. We, and myself especially, are interested in what goods you may offer, nothing more and nothing less.”

Gwen smiled as she snatched the half-burnt cigarette out of Sionis’s hands. Causing a growl from him and her acidic stare in his direction to appear, if only for a moment. Then, Lady Solust took a drag and flicked it into the meat platter, hitting the bone-laden surface of it which Flamingo gnawed on. She said: “Well… That’s what we are here to determine, Mister Ogilvy, as it depends  _ entirely _ on what I get in return, and on our fruitful cooperation.”

At last, the  _ real _ meeting has begun. 

***

_ @Arkham Island, Gotham City: _

The gates’ metal creaking was soothing to the ears, unlike it usually is. Loud, hasty, sloppy steps were soon the only audible sound Ethan Nygma produced. Besides the labored breathing, of course. He threw one last look at the place where he only spent a couple of days, in a full prison term’s stead. The gates read: “ARKHAM.” In an ugly, antiquated font of sorts. Arkham Asylum was rebuilt on numerous occasions, and it still suffered from the same problems, but they’re not the only thing that remained the same: That gate. It was never broken. Always standing there, on an island’s hilltop, imposingly overlooking the cesspit of a fortress it was meant to protect. Gross. 

Ethan moved forward, not looking back any longer. All of this seemed so… Weird. But it also demonstrated just how deep both his fathers’ pockets ran in this pile of bird shit. No one is safe from the Penguin’s flippers or the Riddler’s eyes. Never were, never will be, until they croak. The pressure on him is immense. The invitation’s already been received, and he must head there as soon as possible. To a place of great significance to his former family, that is. For a moment, Nygma stopped, images of that bitch Linda, that bitchboy Jerry, that absolute cunt of a Dr. Strange, and the rest of the freaks he’s been locked up with flashing before his eyes. A bunch of morons, nothing more. He could’ve escaped or run this place better than these “trained professionals” could. Oh, if only. 

Ethan Nygma is the Enigma no longer. He has no possessions, besides his scrubs, a green hoodie, and a scrap phone to which the invitation was sent. Most of the equipment he used was sent back to Q-Core, for further examination and patch-fixes. Queen would probably be interested in his research, even now. No, for sure he would be. This sleazy schmuck never takes anyone’s research seriously until it’s caused trouble. Which is an interesting feature for a damn hero, but not interesting enough for others to care. Especially for Ethan. Especially right now. Thus, that thought, too, got out of his head with yet another gush of cold, petrifying wind. 

The metro station was lit with lights of faint, toxic green, laced with pale, medical-green tiles, and its title was written in a matching, sickly, swamp-like green: “Arkham Island.” “At least I won’t get noticed in this sea of garbage,” Ethan thought. The entire ordeal of his term’s awfully weird, but he shall pay it no mind until he gets to Cobblepot Park. The former Cobblepot planted himself on a cold, moist leather seat and set his blue eyes up to get lost until the train went down. It’s quite a late hour, so there’s nobody in the entire train. Except for an occasional hobo snoring at the end of the wagon. As well as a figure in  _ purple, _ which deliberately put itself right next to him. 

No doubt it’s a yellow bat-symbol on her chest. 

Barbara Gordon wore a surgical mask and sunglasses. In the middle of the night. Totally not suspicious at all. Ethan rolled his eyes and produced an even more labored breath, his malleable nostrils puffing up as a result of that. “What do you want, Barbs?” he asked. 

“Be quiet,” her tone matched her demeanor, “I couldn’t tell you everything in the cell, so I will now.”

“Well then, what is it?” Ethan tried to look genuinely curious, even though he could already read Barbara’s mind and predict how many disappointed slurs are going to be thrown at him. 

“Do you really think you can get away with this?”

“With what? Being released on parole because GBH deemed me healed?”

“After a week-long stay in Arkham. Sure. How do you… Do you even  _ have _ a conscience?!”

“Does it matter?” Ethan said in as uncaring and hollow of a tone as possible, tilting his head to the side to see what reaction it might cause. Oracle’s sad. Disappointed. But not to an extreme extent. “Doesn’t seem like you’d care much for something so miniscule.”

“I  _ trusted  _ you,” Barbara raised her voice, “The Bat put your trust in you, the entire god-damn PD put your trust in you, and you  _ smeared your boots _ in our faces with what you’ve done. Don’t you ever think they’re going to fall off your back, because I will make sure you’re  _ always _ under surveillance, none of the firms will accept you, I will do that because you haven’t served a  _ fraction _ of what you owe to the people of Gotham. I  _ regret _ giving you a second chance, “Ethan Nygma”, and I  _ regret  _ not frying you to your-”

“Trust me - I regret that, too.”

That made Gordon shut up - at last. Her shades were lowered down, and the look of shock in them made Ethan’s bones rattle. He didn’t show it, of course, but it had to be done. It was never  _ meant _ to be, after all. 

“I… I helped you,” Barbara’s disappointment poured out of her lungs in a breathy sigh, “I helped you with everything I had, Ethan. I put my everything into you. So all I have left to ask is… Why?”

“Ah, so it  _ was  _ personal after all,” Ethan said, with a disgusting chuckle following through, “And it also seems like I am, indeed, my father’s son. Driven by impulses, a compulsive need to be recognized and appreciated, as well as petty grievances. They took over, and I became this. T’was a pretty good run, but a very short and shitty one, I admit.”

Barbara’s hurt. So is Ethan. But at least, the latter doesn’t show it. And boy does it feel good to not show it. Gordon’s lips trembled - hard to talk when someone she cared for so ardently is now talking to her like a stranger, isn’t it? From a different angle, it’s almost…  _ Entertaining. _ “You sound like you don’t care at all,” she said.

Nygma’s features curled into a grin - his eyes turned bright, and shone with interest, for once: “Yes!” He raised a voice of his own, “Yes, Barbs! For fucking once I don’t give a  _ shit _ about you. In fact, I don’t give a shit about  _ anyone! _ Anything! You know why? Because you, like me, like Batman, like the rest of your  _ bat-gaggle _ , like everyone else in this town - is a  _ loser. _ You put your trust into a man who was fundamentally meant to fail. Everyone you put your trust into has failed you at some point! Sure, they can tell you excuses, give you gifts, praise you for how good of a person you are, but deep within, they’ll still think of you as a Robin. As expendable, cannon-fodder  _ garbage. _ And trust me - I am not saying this only to hurt you, but to show that…  _ B-Heh, _ I don’t give a fuck!”

The arrival’s signal dinged throughout the wagon. Ethan rose from his seat, but a rough grasp around his wrist stopped him before the doors could open. Barbs looked him in the eye and spoke through grit teeth: “Take one step left or right, Ethan, and I will  _ bury _ you. Promise.”

“But that would be so-very un-Bat-like, wouldn’t it be?” The bastard spoke with a smug grin, instead, “I mean, maybe you would’ve done something good instead of adhering to Gotham’s rot if you weren’t one. But again, even if you did - it wouldn’t matter to me, because nothing does!”

The doors have finally opened. The announcer’s voice lazily dictated the station: “ _ Do-ownto-own. _ ” Ethan hastily stepped out of the wagon and headed upstairs. Finally left alone, he’s already late, but hey - he repeated the same motto. Nothing matters, but, he also added, after the doors closed shut and the train went on: 

  
“ _ Nothing but family does. _ ”


	28. The Curious Case of Linda Bolton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renegade and Rockhopper finally find Tigress! The dynamic duo smashes a couple of heads and shoots a couple of knees down before finding her, however, but alas - they're too late, as the now-infamous Dr. Bolton reveals herself! She is working alongside Dr. Jonathan Crane and the GCPD, leading a task force meant to capture every single masked freak out there. A bold mission statement, but thus far, they've been successful. 
> 
> Then, Ethan finally arrives at Cobblepot Park, and finds Oswald reminiscing about his past! All while glancing at nature. This family reunion is rather odd, but it's still there, and therefore - could be counted as such. 
> 
> Finally, Ignatius cannot stop Thassius from misbehaving, and Martin reveals a fraction of his powers to him. The latter is also concerned for Ogilvy's safety, and, as the former rambles on - he shows his final stance on a tough decision Emperor Penguin has to make.

_ @Park Row, Gotham City: _

Piercing bullets always do the trick. A loud bang was followed by an even louder, metallic clank, and the large lock sealing the door away opened up in front of Rockhopper and Renegade. The latter yanked it open, and the former dashed forth, both of his pistols carefully scanning the area: Nothing there. And it’s quite dark within, too. But the building’s definitely inhabited, as no traces of dust were visible on the walls and decorations lacing them. It’s a spacious hall they’ve gotten into, to be fair, and, judging by the abundance of cars - some kind of underground parkspace. Yup - there’s the elevator, but neither Josh nor Jason rushed; knowing Artemis Crock, this whole apartment building is for sure riddled with booby traps. 

Step after careful step, Cobblepot made his way to the elevator’s doors, and pressed upward and downward buttons both. Jason followed in his tracks. After all, Joshua could see in the dark better than he, even with night vision goggles. And now they waited. Second after painful second. Hearing their own breaths and preparing for an onslaught. It will come, surely so. Joshua’s senses were agile enough to hear an arrow’s whistling, but it did not come from any angle, or the hall, in general. For some reason, the arrow traveled through a vent.

There’s smoke in the area now. The alarms went off right as the lift’s doors opened. Flashes of red and sprinklers were meant to serve as a distraction - that didn’t work nearly as well as expected: 

One henchman was grasped from the side by the Rockhopper, who tackled him to the ground and stomped his nose in the opposite direction with his knee. Pained screams of one distracted the other - both his knees were blown out by Renegade’s bullets. Third henchman proved to be the most capable of the three, as a round of bullets pelted Jason in his vest. Josh thought fast, but not fast enough - his hammer hit the hand and probably severed some fingers with its sharp end. In spite of his wailing, this one fought on, tackling the frail bird to the ground and preparing to blast his head open… Until his own was. With three bullets to the forehead. 

Cobblepot took the balaclava off the last one, and looked at whatever was left of his face. “Those were highschoolers,” he said, pointing at the bodies with a cocked gun.

“Those were targets,” Jason replied dismissively, “I’m not one to tell ya it’s either us or them now, kid. Best we go by the ladder, ay?”

“Ay.”

And so they did. Though, after this little scramble - it’s quiet. Oddly quiet. Which means there’s something worse to come. Good thing they’re prepared. At least, Joshua  _ feels _ prepared. Jason by his side brings some kind of reassurance into the two-man search-and-destroy party. Crane said it’s where they’re hiding, though, doubt filled up Cobblepot’s head. Why would someone hide out in the open like that? Though, on the other hand… It also made sense. No one would come searching somewhere this obvious. Ah well - the Bat or the Cops are probably on it, already, so he shook the thoughts out of his head and focused on moving forward, instead. 

Gotham truly is unique from the rest of America. Even though most of its thirteenth floors are just as abandoned as in the rest of the cities because of superstitious owners, most of them were used for whatever obscenities this wicked town’s populace had in mind. Most notably, the Court of Owls was notorious for making secret bases within those. Rumors are, this particular complex on the seaside of Robbinsville was a favored place among many of its members - especially those with deep pockets. 

And to the surprise of no one, those rumors turned out to be true. 

Ruins of arsenal stacks, as well as abandoned weaponry and former wealth mixed in with smidgens of glory, weren’t the only thing that filled up this luxurious hideout. The Court of Owls’ emblem was thrown off, and quite recently so, judging by the trail of dust it left. Remnants of the Court piled up in bodies, some of them moaning and trying to squirm away, their masks sewn onto their faces. Some of them broken, alongside their legs and arms. Most of them were left out in the open, to bleed onto the floors of their own nest. Tigress herself settled on a throne meant for a branch leader, with a ridiculous amount of explosives attached to her bulletproof vest. 

“Step left or right and I’ll blow all of us to bits.”

“You and I both know you aren’t gonna do it,” Josh said, the voice modulator making his voice much deeper and somehow polyphonic. “Put the detonator down, Tigress. We’re here to finish the job safely!”

“ _ Safely? _ ”

“ _ Well I don’t know! _ ”

“Over my dead bo-”

The sound of glass breaking everyone’s senses, all of a sudden. There were too many people in the entire stash, as well. They were well-armed, but the white “GCPD” letters on the backs of these troops’ vests were somewhat reassuring. Then there’s a tall, lanky, brown spot and a yellow gaseous substance that clouded Arty’s vision. Her gasps and groans were then muffled out by zip-ties, and a familiar figure of a very distinct,  _ disgusting _ creature appeared in front of both Rockhopper and Renegade. Of course, it was the same butchy haircut of coarse, straight black hair, and the piercing blue eyes that peeked out of a half-mask under silver-laced glasses. The sound of tasers muffled her words out, too, but when Joshua returned to reality from such a swift space-out, Jason and her were already conversing with one another. 

“Who… Who the hell is that?” Joshua said, his shaky arm pointing at Dr. Linda Bolton, in good health and taking the screaming Tigress away alongside the now unmasked Scarecrow. 

“Linda, Linda Bolton,” she said, stretching her arm out to him, “Four years in the military, an accredited specialist at Arkham Asylum, nearly died about a week ago during the Assault, I am the one leading this operation. I trust Dr. Crane informed you about this matter, and - you should  _ really _ take your mask off. Please.” Linda did insist, with her squint and fake little smile being the most intimidating factors, really. 

In spite of that, Cobblepot did not oblige. Nor did Colonel Todd, who this Bolton seemingly knows. Furthermore - Crane’s working for  _ her, _ all of a sudden? Now this is just confusing. Joshua wanted to say something witty and riddled with spice, but Jason stopped him with a hand landing on the farther shoulder. Josh shook Linda’s hand, and then she transferred it over to Jason, who did the same. 

“Have we met?” He asked. 

“We probably have. Cape May, isn’t it?”

“Yup. You is Lock-Up’s kid, huh?”

“Niece. Don’t worry, we aren’t the same people - I’d rather rehabilitate those nuts than just punch ‘em.”

“That’s exactly what you’re doin’, though,” Colonel Todd adjusted the loose flap of his gun holster, “Not that I disapprove or wish to interfere.”

“But aren’t you supposed to be-”

“Dead? Imprisoned?” Linda said with a coy smirk, looking Joshua all over as he took a small-souled step back. “I’m no prisoner here, boy. I’m the  _ warden. _ So I decide what to do with who’s been our target for literal months, mm-kay?”

“You  _ whacked _ Dr. Arkham during the Assault!” Joshua spat back at Dr. Bolton, retaking the space he’s conceded previously: “All evidence is in support of that!”

“Oh. So you read the report, or…? Ah, yes, it’s from the news,” Linda said rather distantly, her eyes trailing off to observe as Scarecrow conversed with the rest of the troops, “That…  _ Vicki Vale _ persona always being the sore spot in a functioning body, mm? Well, the official reports say I have  _ saved _ Dr. Arkham from Tigress’s offenses, as she is a known associate among the Cobblepots. Furthermore, the investigation against the entirety of that cesspit of a family is currently being conducted and I’m sure there will be lots to dig up. Now, didn’t I order you to take off your mask, boy? Do it. Do it now.”

“He’ll do whatever he wants as long as it’s under my jurisdiction, Dr. Bolton. We’re leaving.” 

Jason came in as a real savior in this situation. Joshua looked… Completely lost, as this awful thing that barely looked like a human being with its waxy skin and dead, crystal-like eyes, continued pushing forward. Most importantly - she knew. If she’ll torture Arty, and no doubt she will, Crock might crack and she’ll know for sure. Still, even as Scarecrow talked to Colonel Todd about… Something, they most likely argued, Cobblepot couldn’t hear a thing. He was out of it. Completely. Strolling off from the site of capture. Led by Jason and Jonathan both, as per usual. 

Linda Bolton is a curious, awful creature. And it looks like Uncle will be in big trouble if Joshua Cobblepot won’t hurry the hell up. 

***

_ @Cobblepot Park, Gotham City: _

Oswald’s strut is fast-paced, but calmly-put. There is nothing of value put onto him besides the umbrella. An old, torn-up jacket of black cowhide, a matching black vest and tie, with an even older white shirt. It’s not ironed, so the collar looks sloppy and uneven. Decrepit striped pants with grey patches stitched on them were in complete disarray with unlacquered brown loafers and funky purple socks. There’s no need to look stunning in Cobblepot Park, as no stunning individuals usually arrive to this stale and moss-laden piece of recreation. 

The second-to-last Cobblepot took a seat on a moist bench. Stripes of wood bent under his weight and nearly snapped from their own fragility, whereas the base of rusted cast iron remained just as sturdy. None remained here at this late of an hour - even the local druggies abandoned their posts and went to sleep in their tents, as the fire in a barrel kept burning on, providing both light and warmth to the area. Theodore Cobblepot’s statue wasn’t desecrated, however - if only a teensy bit shat on by the local pigeons, but that’s not desecration - that is, after all, nature’s calling. Still - there it is! An outline of his face. Thankfully, the bench wasn’t nearly as dirty. 

A lot of birds gathered around Oswald. They usually did. Some even chose to sit on the bench - and they received a little treat in the face of some leftover granola. The pigeons’ crooning lasted for a while, making the Penguin smile in the face of… Nothing. Soon enough, they weren’t there, and chose to take some rest after their late-night supper. Still aware of his surroundings, Cobblepot didn’t close his eyes down, but although open, they’re visibly spaced out and simply not there. 

There was no silence at first - it came to his mind later. Sounds of the fire burning in the distance, as well as little hummingbirds conversing with one another, soothed Oswald’s ears for the time being. Then - the silence came, and nothing of value came through whilst Cobblepot took a firm grasp on his umbrella and balled up to save up some heat. Not a Penguin, it looks like - but a Pigeon, instead. Good. Means little will notice his dainty hooded head and the monocle hidden under the shadows. The makeshift campfire’s noises came back, but this time they sounded almost like… The Manor’s fireplace. 

Yes. There was Dad’s voice, too. And Momma. Momma’s songs. No brothers, though. Except for, maybe, Jason. The youngest, yes - his shrill and shaky voicelet as he’s practicing. They’re laughing. They’re so happy together, but he? He’s silent. Then they laugh again, and then they cry, as the older ones’ voices come through. Now it’s Dad coughing. Well, not Dad - some junkie. But it sounds quite alike. Does it, now?

That won’t matter. The leaves rustled around in a strong gush of wind. Calmly, methodically. Like paper in hands. Like  _ cash. _ There’s a couple walking by in the distance - a young man and an older lady. The latter’s tone is low and deep, but oh, her alfonso’s nasal laugh as she tells some quips and puns are so damn similar to his. They vanish then, like every other sound - and are replaced with decrepit metal bars rolling around on the cold, hard, concrete floor, stopping as soon as they hit the bust and its postament. 

Some group of punks passed by right after the odd couple. They, too, were laughing about something. Talking about their own little ambitions in their own little neighborhoods - their own little  _ blocs. _ Their speech isn’t elevated, but somehow? Beautiful. Like sparrows they keep peeping on, and on, until they disappear in the dark much like every other passerby. Someone’s watching TV - Oz doesn’t even have to flick his eyes up to see that. A bright, blue screen, with some cheerful clapping and whistling coming out of the wide-open window. Well, it  _ is  _ spring, but who would have that open in the middle of the night? Does someone also have a Dad but not quite? Ah. That doesn’t matter much, either - the iron bars begin rolling around again. 

In spite of the late hour, everyone’s having  _ something _ tonight. Something most likely very fun - there are parties all around and very little are actually sleeping. It is a Friday night, after all. Penny’s gonna have some extra on this fruitful occasion the next morning, as is traditional in the Iceberg Lounge by now. Finally, Ozzy closed his eyes and let his thoughts flow. The voices were no longer of the crowd seen in the lit-up windows, but of those speaking within his head. Iggy, Joshua, Ethan, Edward, Jonathan, Jervis, Arnold, Rupert, Carmine, Salvatore, Jason… Momma. And then a clutter - like a powerful outcry, a surge of pure emotion that forced his eyes back open and for his breath to steam upon panting. 

Ethan’s right by his side, now. The bench is holding up, but barely. It’s cold, it’s wet, and it’s downright unforgivable. But the warmth that radiates from the two of them is both pleasant and somehow repulsive. Still - Ethan moved in to lean against Oswald’s side. The two of them said nothing for a good while, watching Gotham pulse and move in its chaotically-gorgeous, sleepless foxtrot. Eventually, the Cobblepots shifted around and faced each other. “Wanna go back home?” Oswald asked, keeping his voice down in spite of them being all alone - to keep nature’s sounds flowing. 

The father’s son did not reply for a long time. Simply breathing, steam rushing out of his nostrils. There was no longer that distinct feeling of pleasant loneliness. Some eyes were looking around them. But did that matter? Not at all - no one would be interested in two dorks looking at decrepit buildings, as well as trains and people passing by. This put a smile on Ethan’s face, as he faced the park again and laid his head on Oswald’s shoulder:

“Nah, Dad. Let’s stick around for just a little longer.”

***

_ @The Empyrean, Gotham City: _

Gotham never sleeps. Especially its core. It’s always a clutter of noise deep within, pulsing from the southern island and reaching all the way downstream, to Bludhaven and Metropolis. Old Gotham’s vibrance was supplied with towering skyscrapers, and, over the course of this spring - the Empyrean managed to become yet another jewel among many in the Diamond District: Crowd after crowd after crowd, the delectable chaos of carnal pleasures within its walls never stopped, and its owner, of course, planned to simply keep at it - as his patrons danced, drank, ate, fought, and fucked their lives away. 

Most of its chaotic nature comprised the lower floors - where all the  _ fun  _ congregates. But when it comes to real business - top floors occupy all the space. Labyrinths of dim, tranquil corridors led up to Ignatius Ogilvy’s office, where he tended to his birds and greeted especially important guests. It’s as bird-themed as it gets, as it appears the Emperor Penguin’s tastes have not ventured far from his surrogate father’s. And, although richly-decorated and usually-tidy - it’s quite a hassle at the moment. 

To put it simply - Thassius is misbehaving again.

“Babe, come on! Get back here!” Ogilvy’s deep voice increased in volume, mostly due to frustration, as he chased the squawking condor around. Thassius grasped at some of the statuettes and elaborate crafts depicting crimes of passion known to Gotham’s press. Naturally, Iggy jumped forth to save them, first, and try to catch his misbehaving pet by his large talons. The bugger’s fast, but not fast enough! Ogilvy’s large hands have a strong grasp, but at the same time - it’s kept gentle. After all, Thassius has been a good boy for longer than a month, and such procedures usually mean someone’s lacking their food. 

In spite of the gentle grasp, Ignatius was yelled at and his gloved hand was roughly bitten by the haughty bird. A pained groan followed suit, as Ogilvy let go of him and Thassius continued flying around as if nothing happened. Emotions took Iggy over for a good while - the skin of his turning pallid, and it was about to turn blue… Until he could hear the faint whistling overwhelm the grandiose avian creature, settling him down in the meantime. 

Martin appeared in the office. His lips were pursed into an O-shape, and he produced a magnificent symphony of short, commanding whistles on the spot. Thassius listened. No, he didn’t  _ just  _ listen - he stepped forward. He never misses the opportunity to use his wings, but this time? Martin got him in his midst, let him settle on his delicate arm, and fed him a pinch of cashew nuts. The grandiose condor was almost the same size as the smallest of all Penguinlings, and yet - he appears to be even more confident than Ignatius is at this very moment! He’s not afraid - so isn’t the bird he’s feeding. Thassius really digs into these cashews, too! His beak completely disappears deep within the crevices of Martin’s palm. Ignatius does look concerned, but he lets Marty do his thing, instead, and listens in on the precious tunes he’s “singing”, as well.

Eventually, the cashews ended, but as the song continued - Thassius didn’t act up any longer. Like a lullaby, Martin’s whistling brought him to slumber in about a minute’s notice, as loud crooning emerged as a bassline for the whistles whilst the smaller bird’s petting the larger one. With the condor’s weight resting up against him, Vickers brought him back into his spacious, gilded cage, and let him rest there. The whistles stopped, and Ogilvy emerged from a half-nap of his own with a loud pop of his spine. 

“Huh- What the- I’m here, I’m here, don’t worry, ah… Marty, you… You never told me you can handle birds so well,” Iggy now spoke in a calm and soothing tone, as per usual - as if he didn’t nearly transform into a gigantic bat out of rage the moment before. 

Martin rubbed the back of his head and grinned, his pearl-whites reflecting the light coming from a warm, dim light source. Then, his hands began scratching something down on the notebook. The sketch revealed itself to be a cartoony drawing of himself putting the finger up to the lips.  _ “It’s a secret!” _ the fancy scribbles underneath read. 

“Very well, then!” Ignatius proclaimed with some cheer in his voice, “A secret it shall remain. Until you’re ready to show off before the crowd, that is. And I mean, you should - it’s a nice, peaceful, and entertaining skill to have, Marty. Sorry I dozed off there. Kinda strange I did, but hey...”

As the many words Emperor Penguin produced did not match Martin’s silence all-too well, he, too, fell quiet soon enough. There’s still a smile on his face, but that fades away as soon as he turns away, thinking the little assistant of his can’t see the real picture. Ogilvy settled in the armchair of his own and let some calm ooze over him. His eyes were shut, but barely so. Eventually, he could feel paper rustling close to the armrest, and immediately snatched whatever piece of paper that was handed to him. Ears twitching, Iggy glanced down at the piece of paper as Martin stood by. It read: 

_ “Ignatius. Something is clearly bothering you, Brother. Do you mind telling me what is wrong? I miss seeing you calm. :C” _

Ogilvy… Had to think of a proper answer. There is so much he cannot say, so much he cannot yet reveal to the young, barely-adult mind of Martin. His innocence must be preserved and cherished - especially in a place like the Empyrean. “Thank Christ he hasn’t seen the basement floors,” Iggy thought. A heavy, relieved sigh followed right after a long stare. Ignatius threw a glance at Martin, and then stared off into the distance - through a window, yearning for fresh air and an open skyline again:

“There is a lot on my mind right now, Marty. Thus far, we’re one of the most successful venues in Downtown as of today, but at the same time? We’re dependent on investors like Sionis or Valentin. Hell, even Clock King has a stake in it, and if we go down - we lose our allies, too. That’s one thing, then the other thing is - Oswald. Our dad, so to speak. I can’t decide if he’s my enemy, or if he’s simply my rival, because… I would have the  _ exact _ same course of actions if I were in his place when I took what I considered rightfully mine. He has been… A good man, to most Gothamites. It’ll be a tragic loss, if he’ll be gone. For all of us. Even myself. You see, ah… Rivals can be  _ negotiated with. Influenced _ by certain factors. And enemies, well… You defeat them. Whatever it takes. And so I… I don’t know what to do. For once, I  _ really _ don’t know what to do. So I thought, maybe, you could be of help?”

The smallest of birds wasn’t there any longer. All he left behind was another note, with some other scribble put onto it. Ignatius didn’t take that personally - after all, he’s been rambling about for a while, without paying much attention to Martin. Well, he didn’t pay much attention to anyone but himself in general, but this was a bit rude of him. Regardless - Ogilvy picked the sleek, thick piece of paper up and examined it in detail; it’s a much more detailed drawing, now. There he is - Oswald. In the center. Holding a large umbrella over four of his kids, represented by each bird they bore their nicknames after. There! Emperor Penguin stands proudly and leans on one leg of Cobblepot’s, then the Rockhopper’s biting his other ankle. A chinstrap penguin with a pheasant’s tail for some reason is having a field day looking down all balled-up. And then - there’s a mockingbird, sitting right on Ozzy’s shoulder. 

This was… Heartfelt. Perhaps that was Martin’s final stance. On one hand, it made the decision all the harder, but on the other - Ignatius already knew what he should do. Thus, he put the piece of paper down, rose from his seat, opened up the window, took a deep breath, and disappeared into the night, meshing in with the gargoyles as the glowing crimson eyes observed the skyline just the way he wanted to do moments ago, occasionally taking a glance at all of Marty’s drawings he’s discovered. 

“A rivalry. It is, after all, a rivalry.”


End file.
